


New Irony

by RosYourBoat



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:04:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4644999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosYourBoat/pseuds/RosYourBoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson has had to make a few hard decisions lately. When he returns from an oncology conference and finds House hurting and uncommunicative, he soon finds that, even as he battens down the hatches to weather out another emotional storm with his best friend, House still has the ability to surprise him. This is a story of enduring love, hardship, and traversing new territory with an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Irony

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my recent excavation and expunction of all of my old fics from my hard drive to an online form, where they can be held as an indelible and inescapable memento of my past obsessions. These fics are all unbeta'd and heretofore unseen by anyone but me. I hope someone else feels some of the enjoyment I received from writing them.
> 
> "New Irony" was written in April of 2009, and is complete.

_Cocoa. Shower. Sleep._

_Cocoa. Shower. Sleep._

I stood blankly in front of the revolving baggage claim, watching as the endless black suitcases rolled sedately down the conveyor belt and tumbled amidst their unfortunate fellows. My mind was almost blessedly empty at this point, having been completely scrubbed of coherent thought somewhere between Lake Superior and the Appalachians. I barely had the presence of mind to snag my own bag adorned with a lurid rainbow ribbon—courtesy of House, of course—as it passed. I heaved a sigh as I turned to hail a cab outside of the airport which, in my opinion, was obscenely crowded for two o’clock on a Monday morning.

_Don’t these people have lives to attend to?_ I wondered. _Wives, childrenn, jobs?_ I smiled ruefully, earning a strange look from the older woman beside me who was waiting for a cab as well. I didn’t protest when she hurried in front of me to claim one that had just pulled up. After all, I only had one of the things that apparently constituted a life.

Julie—Ex-Mrs. James Wilson III—had divorced me years ago and the pain had already begun to soften at the edges only two months later. That alone would have solidified the decision I had made on House’s couch the night Julie had kicked me out on my arse, still clutching the pen that had signed the divorce papers only minutes before.

“I’m done. That’s it,” I had declared solemnly, my words only slightly slurred from the half-empty beer—only my third—clutched in my hand. “No more ‘Mrs. James Wilsons’ for me. I can’t take it anymore.” I had then promptly passed out. I could never really hold my liquor well on a good day; add in personal heartache and despair and there was really no contest.

Drunken, melancholic ramblings aside, I found that in the sober light of day my decision hadn’t changed. Experience had proven to me that I wasn’t meant for married life. No matter how much I wanted to be, I somehow managed to screw things up. The first two tries had shown that although I had thought I loved the women I married, I still couldn’t keep my hands to myself and my fly zipped. And the third truly exemplified just how screwed up I really am because this time it wasn’t even my fault. The traits and habits that had been secondary complaints to my previous wives proved to be the destruction of the third, even with my diligent avoidance of adultery.

Julie had complained about my work hours. My devotion to my patients and to my job is one of the few things that has been unwavering and constant throughout my adult life. The other is my complete dedication to my friendship with House. I could not easily give up either of them, if at all, and that is what none of my wives had ever been able to understand. Being married to me meant being married to House as well and I suppose that even the most understanding, sane woman wouldn’t be able to handle that.

Of course, being best friends with Gregory House was far from easy. Our friendship was fraught with arguments, exasperation, and endless worry—at least from my end—just as much as it was filled with deep understanding and dependence. It had taken hits from the hellish experiences with Vogler and Tritter and Amber and my subsequent frustration with House and his addiction and pride. My guilt and frustration had blinded me to House’s true pain and it had been a long time before I finally realized that House was _dependent_ on the Vicodin, not addicted. Only when I had realized this could our friendship begin to repair.

_Cocoa. Shower. Sleep._

I finally managed to grab a taxi. I hauled my suitcase into the trunk and collapsed into the backseat with a groan, only managing to lean forward to tell the driver where to drop me before I leaned back into the seat and sank into my thoughts once more.

I wondered how House was doing. He had probably ransacked my apartment while I was gone, rigging it with every booby trap and practical joke known to man. His fellows were probably being driven mad without me there to distract House from them and a patient had probably tried to sue him already. It was likely that nothing too serious had happened—even though I had lost my cell phone two weeks ago, I still had my pager for emergencies. But I hadn’t heard a word from anyone back in Princeton. _God, ma_ y _be that means House has killed them all._ The thought was only partly joking and my vague worry ratcheted up a notch.

_Cocoa. Shower. Sleep._

I had had a hellish three weeks. Cuddy had “commissioned” me to represent the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital’s oncology department by attending a three-week intensive oncology conference and seminar in Minnesota. The airport had lost my luggage upon arrival and I had had to wear the clothes I had flown in in for three days before it was sent to me. My fellow oncologists were dry, pompous asses that couldn’t tell a malignant hematoma from a rash. And on the first weekend I had somehow let myself be dragged to a bar where I had had two glasses of scotch and lost my cell phone in a drunken stumble. The last week I had barely slept for three hours at a time because of the enthusiastic homosexual couple in the room next to mine.

After three weeks of mind-numbingly boring presentations and only vaguely interesting conversations, I was aching to return to Princeton-Plainsboro. And House. I wondered how my patients were doing. Elderly Mr. Hansen had been in great pain when I had left, but I had heard of no change in his condition so he couldn’t have gotten worse. What about little Sam Jameson?

_Well, I’ll know soon enough,_ I reassured myself as the cab pulled up to my apartment building. I paid the cabbie and lugged my suitcase up to my apartment. I hesitated outside of the door for a moment, but my exhaustion overtook my caution and I stumbled inside, locking the door behind me. It was nearly three in the morning and I had work in less than five hours. Too early to care about House’s practical jokes. There were only three things I reallywanted right now.

_Cocoa. Shower. Sleep._

I had always had a strange urge for hot cocoa when I was stressed or exhausted. I found it comforting and warming; House thought it was femmie. And I was craving a long, hot shower to wash away the dirt and grime of a long trip and close quarters five thousand feet in the air. As I crawled to my room and caught sight of my welcoming bed, however, all other thoughts dropped from my mind and I collapsed onto the soft mattress.

_Screw it. Sleep._

* * *

I woke to rumpled, travel-worn clothes and gritty, dark-circled eyes with only half an hour to spare before I had to be at work. I scrambled through my morning routine, cursing when I nicked my jaw with my razor and making a face at the smell wafting from the refrigerator when I opened it to grab a glass of orange juice. Abandoning the thought of any breakfast, I ran out the door and barely made it to my office on time.

I caught a glimpse into the glass-walled diagnostics department on my way and saw House’s fellows inside. Thirteen was going through mail, Foreman and Taub were reading medical journals, and Kutner was trying to balance a pencil on his nose. No case, then. That meant that House wasn’t likely to be in for another two hours at least. I sighed. Meanwhile, I would be stuck in my office catching up on the mountains of paperwork that had no doubt accumulated over my absence.

But first, I would make my rounds to all of my patients. I made it a point to discuss my patient’s conditions face-to-face and to check up on them regularly throughout their treatment. I found it brought them comfort and reassurance to put a face on the doctor and it reminded me that there was more to the patient than their disease. House thought it was a waste of time.

My rounds took up much of my morning. I returned to my office to work on paperwork and by the time lunch rolled around my neglected stomach was growling and gnawing at me constantly. I gratefully left the office to search out House and lunch, trying to push aside the worry that had also been gnawing at me. I was surprised that I hadn’t seen House at all through the day—considering that on a normal day he interrupted my work at least twice before lunch—and I knew that not seeing him was a bad thing. Bad for whom… I wasn’t sure yet.

I found him outside his office, snarking back to Cuddy who was trying to harangue him about clinic duty again. His back was to me and I could already tell that he was in pain from the stiffness of his shoulders and the defensive line to his body. That alone was not enough to alarm me, however—after all, House was in pain nearly every moment of every day—but when I saw how he was putting his weight almost equally on both sides of his body and how his head tilted to back to rest on his tense shoulders, a thrill of alarm shot through me and I hurried forward.

Cuddy saw me coming over House’s shoulder and she seemed almost inordinately relieved. Her combative stance relaxed and a smile spread across her pretty face.

“Wilson, thank God you’re here! I’m never going to send you anywhere ever again—that was the worst mistake of my life. If I thought House was impossible to deal with on a normal basis—” I wasn’t listening. House had tensed when he heard my name before he had relaxed almost suspiciously quickly and turned to face me. He looked bad. His stubble was longer than usual over his haggard face and his eyes were blood-shot and dark-ringed. His excuse was probably that he had partied all weekend with five different hookers and he did look like he had come in with a hangover, but it was the pain in his eyes that told me the truth.

“My God. House, what—”

“Jimmy, there you are! You’re just coming to see me _now_ after being gone for an eternity?” House cut me off with an exaggerated pout. “I was beginning to think you don’t love me anymore. Now save me from the high-heeled, fire-breathing, boob monster! She’s trying to capture me and take me to her snotty-nose infested lair!”

I hovered for a split second, unsure if I should push the issue, but his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that were far more expressive than his words ever could be—told me to let it go for now. Reluctantly, I did so. I crossed my arms and frowned at him.

“You’re hardly a damsel in distress, House, and I’ve only been gone for three weeks. I doubt I could escape you for longer than that even if I wanted to.”

“And you’d better not want to,” Cuddy warned me. “I haven’t been able to get House to do anything since you left and his clinic hours are through the roof, not to mention my blood pressure!” I saw House smirk evilly and open his mouth and I hurried to cut him off.

“I’ll talk to him, Dr. Cuddy,” I assured her before turning to House. “Want to go to lunch? I’ll even pay.” I wheedled, wanting to get him alone so he would tell me why he was in so much pain, but he was already shaking his head.

“No can do, Jimmy. Mom packed me a brown sack lunch today and she told me I have to eat every bite or else I’m grounded.” He turned and pushed open the door to his office. “Bring some dinner after school today and maybe she’ll let us have a sleep over.” He added over his shoulder with a lascivious wink before vanishing into his office.

I didn’t smile. “I need to talk to you,” I told Cuddy. She looked surprised but nodded promptly.

“Let’s go to lunch,” she suggested, “I need to know how the conference went anyway.”

I grimaced, but nodded as we began walking to the cafeteria. I needed to know what happened to House and though his invitation to his apartment tonight suggested that he might tell me what is was, I knew that it wouldn’t come until after dinner, several beers, several more Vicodin, and probably half of a movie as well. I didn’t want to wait that long. I was worried about my best friend.

Ever since the infarction, the lines of pain around House’s mouth and intense blue eyes were almost constantly tightened and on a normal day that was the only indication the casual observer could see. But I had quickly learned that there were _levels_ to House’s pain and by now I was intimately familiar with each of them. There was the base line pain, the worn-off-Vicodin pain, the been-on-my-feet-all-day pain, the bumped-the-gimp-leg pain, the pre-spasm pain, the excruciating spasm pain, and—at the top of the list—the withdrawal pain. On good days, House stayed at the first stage, and on normal days he hovered between the first two. Bad days spanned the third through fifth stages and anything after that usually immobilized him if his pride allowed it.

The pain in his eyes today was somewhere between the fourth and fifth stages, past the point where his normal dosage of Vicodin would do anything but dampen the pain. And the way he held his body—from the carefully balanced weight on both of his legs to the supporting grip he had on his office door—told me that this pain wasn’t coming totally from his leg.

Cuddy and I sat at a table near the large windows with our trays. I poked at my salad for a few minutes while we made small talk before Cuddy put a hand on mine to still my fidgeting.

“Wilson, what’s wrong?” She asked.

I hesitated for a second. I would have to handle this carefully. Cuddy wasn’t acting any different than she normally did, which suggested that she didn’t know anything. On the other hand, something might have happened but she might not have thought it was important enough to page me about. Either way, House would never forgive me if I tipped her off about him being in pain and she bothered him about it. House hated appearing weak in front of others, even when he was.

“Did anything happen while I was gone? I kept having visions of the hospital being razed to the ground and House on death row. You know he would never tell me if there was anything I should be warned about.” That’s right. Keep it light, not too worried. It seemed to work.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. “You know I’ll never understand the friendship you two have. I don’t think I’ve ever seen House so miserable, to be honest. He was fine for about a week after you left—you lost your phone around then, didn’t you?—and then it was like all hell broke loose. He sulked and whined even more than usual and he snapped at anyone who crossed his path. It was next to impossible to get him to do anything other than hide in his office or work on his patients and it came to the point that whenever he _did_ leave his office, the nurses would scatter like a fox among hens. You have no idea how many asked me for time off until you came back.”

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” I asked, my brow creased in surprise and worry.

“Worse. I thought his team was going to snap and throw him out the window. It’s good you came back—he was almost acting normal today.”

“So that was it? He was just throwing a tantrum? Nothing worse than that?”

“Trust me, House throwing a tantrum is more than Mother Theresa could handle. It’s never ‘just’ anything with that man.” Cuddy sighed, seemingly finished venting. “But no, he didn’t kill a patient or OD on Vicodin, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, that’s progress. Baby steps and all that,” I said jokingly. She laughed and the conversation moved on to the oncology conference in Minnesota. So Cuddy didn’t know anything. Sure, it was sort of surprising that House regressed to childhood while I was gone, but it wasn’t completely unexpected. It still didn’t explain how House had gotten hurt this time.

I tried to concentrate on my work again after lunch but I only succeeded for blocks at a time before House intruded on my thoughts. He was avoiding me. That was the only explanation I had for him not intruding into my office as well. While I normally would have stayed well after hours when I had this much work to catch up on (it’s not like I had anything to go home to, anyway), I found that I couldn’t concentrate. I glanced at my watch. 5:27. I knew that House would have left the hospital already. Which meant that he was at home. In pain. Alone.

I abandoned the papers. Throwing my coat over my arm and snatching up my briefcase, I turned out the lights.

“Damn it, House,” I muttered as I locked the door behind me.

“What did I do this time?”

I spun around, gaping at the sight of House leaning against the wall across from my office with a smirk playing across his lips. I looked at my watch again. 5:28. I looked back at House. Back at my watch.

“I didn’t like this watch anyway,” I said conversationally. “Julie got it for me a month before we broke up. I just didn’t think it would die this fast.”

“The cheap whore probably got it from Taiwan.” House agreed.

“Yes, because it simply _cannot_ be 5:28 at night and Gregory House is still at work.”

“Stranger things have happened… like me bumming a ride off you. Chop chop, this place creeps me out at night.” He gave a mock shiver and I fell into step beside him.

“That’s not strange; it happens every week!” I protested.

“Then you shouldn’t be so surprised about it, should you?”

“Where’s your bike, anyway?” I asked as we finally reached my car.

“Took the bus today,” he grunted as he eased himself into the seat. I watched out of the corner of my eye as his face paled and his breathing shortened. “Stow the interrogation for the ride, will ya? You’re gonna give me a headache.”

“Fine, fine.” I said, keeping my concern from my voice. I pretended not to notice when he pressed his hand into his left side and grimaced, scrabbling for his pill bottle and opening it one-handed with the ease of long practice. After popping two, he leaned back in his seat and breathed slowly. I drove as fast as I dared.

“We’re here already?” House said, opening his eyes when I parked in front of his apartment. “Didn’t know you were that eager to get me alone up there.” He leered.

“Dammit, House, this isn’t funny,” I burst out, trying and failing to keep my voice steady. “You’re hurt and I want to know why.”

“Keep your panties on, Suzy McSluttypants,” House said, opening the door and hauling himself from the car with some difficulty. I cursed and hurried out of the car, barely remembering to lock it before I moved to help House up to his apartment. He allowed it without comment, which only served to increase my worry.

Entering the apartment, House shook me off and headed for the kitchen, pulling two beers from the confines of the fridge. I sighed and shook my head, but accepted the beer. I returned it to the fridge without opening it. House rolled his eyes at me and took a pointed swig, but I leveled a hard stare at him. He looked away, grumbling to himself as he nursed the beer.

“You’re not following the rules, Jimmy,” he muttered. I put my hands on my hips, so exasperated I could barely speak.

“Y-you… self-centered jerk!” I cried, throwing up my hands and turning away. I paced a quick circle before ending up in the same position as before. “I was gone for three weeks—three weeks! Call me pathetic, but we haven’t been away from each other for that long in _years_ —except for-for after Amber—and I was already afraid that you had burned down the hospital and I come back and I find you like this! I’m worried, you ass!”

“Aw, Jimmy, I didn’t know you cared.” House’s reply lacked the usual bite. I had startled him, but I hardly noticed. The pent up emotions were coming out and I could hardly stop them.

“Dammit, Greg, don’t do this again. Of _course_ I care! I love you! You know that; you’re my best friend. Throw me a bone here!”

“Yeah, I know you care. You always have, you idiot,” House mumbled, setting his beer on the counter and leaning against the wall. He managed to hold my eyes with his own vulnerable gaze for a whole seven seconds before he looked away, uncomfortable as always with bared emotions. “You… know I feel the same way about you. Can’t help it; just a fact of life.”

“Yeah, like death and taxes,” I huffed, but I couldn’t hide the warm swell of affection his words raised. I could count on both hands the number of times House had cautiously lowered his walls for conversations like these and each one was held close to my heart.

“D’you feel better now? This conversation is going to make me hurl.”

“Well, we can’t have that. We both know that you’ll just make me clean it up.”

“It’d be your fault,” House pointed out. He picked up his beer for another swig, wincing when he set it down, and I noticed he pressed his hand protectively against his side again.

“Now you’re just stalling.” I stood straight and motioned him over to the bathroom. “Come on, let me check you out.” This time he didn’t even comment on the double entendre and I noticed that his face was pale again. Sweaty, too. I cursed inwardly and went to his side, steadying him as we walked into the large bathroom. He looked even worse under the harsh, bright lights. I tried to get him to sit on the toilet, but he refused, instead leaning on the counter and breathing shallowly.

I looked over him thoroughly with doctor’s eyes. His damaged leg seemed no worse for the wear; if it was bad enough the Vicodin wouldn’t prevent him from dropping to the floor and curling up like a pretzel. No, the leg was probably at stage three at the worst; bad, but not the source of his pain for once. He favored his left side and he shivered even though his body had been warm when I touched him. Fever, then, and most likely the wound that caused it.

Without another word, I helped him get his t-shirt off. I couldn’t prevent the sharp intake of breath when I saw his torso. Fresh bruises, in the shape of fists and possibly boots, covered his frame liberally and a makeshift bandage was already bleeding through on his left side just above the floating ribs. Another bandage at his hip disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

First things first. I grabbed the fully-stocked First-Aid kit I had stashed here when House first moved in and I carefully removed the bandage from his side. It revealed a laceration about an inch across, seeping blood slowly and hot to the touch. _God. He was knifed._

“How long was the knife?” I asked. I kept my voice as steady and distant as I could, concentrating on being his doctor rather than his friend.

“About four inches. Don’t worry, it missed anything important.”

“You cleaned it up?”

“Yes, mommy. I _am_ a doctor, too, you know. I even know how to suture it; just couldn’t get the angle right.” I just nodded and cleaned the seeping wound again, slathering the surrounding area with local anesthetic as well. Then I quickly and carefully stitched up the wound, closing it off sixteen neat sutures later. I cleaned it up again, smeared anti-bacterial cream over the fresh stitches, and taped a clean bandage over it. Gesturing to the bandage at his hip, I looked up at him questioningly and he nodded. I helped him remove his jeans and we both remained silent as I continued to look him over for additional injuries.

I carefully prodded around House’s torso, checking for bruised or broken ribs. He was in great shape, I thought distantly, for being 49. Greg had never been fat or flabby before the infarction—he had been a runner and a sports player—but after the infarction he had become nearly emaciated. His physical and mental state caused him to lose much of his body weight and although technically it had been good for his leg to support less weight when he had started physical therapy, I had been deeply worried about him. But, as with every challenge, Greg had faced this one head on. He worked like a demon to get his leg into the best shape possible, pushing his body past its limits trying to get his leg to walk without a cane. He had failed in that regard, but in the process had progressed farther and faster than any of his doctors had expected him to.

The result was before me. Long, toned legs whose only blight was the cavernous twisted scar on his right thigh where his femoral muscles had been. A lightly-muscled torso and broad shoulders led to arms like iron pillars, the whipcord strength in them obvious without his t-shirt and leather jacket. His face had been affected by his recovery as well. Pain and scowl lines were carved around his mouth and eyes and his hair was eternally scruffy. But his eyes… Those amazingly intense, impossibly blue eyes, burned with a passion and determination that spoke of the strength of will and mind that Greg had. The genius and the pain. His eyes revealed that he had been emotionally scarred as well.

A lean, hard body without an ounce of fat like his would have him fighting off women if he only let them, I thought. I knew that it had been years since Greg had had sex that he hadn’t paid for and even then, it had been a while since he had been visited by a hooker. I wondered if he felt lonely or starved for an affectionate touch like I did if I went too long without sex, or if the Vicodin had taken care of his sex drive for good. He deserved more than that.

The bandage at his left hip covered a thin cut that traveled from his upper thigh up to just above the edge of his boxers where it ended with an assortment of tiny dots, as though the knife point had danced around trying to find the best place to pierce. I pulled down his boxers, politely keeping my eyes focused on the cut rather than House’s penis mere inches from my hands. This cut seemed to be healing well; it had already clotted but its placement meant that every time House sat down he risked it opening again. I sighed and House shivered. I glanced up apologetically and cleaned and re-bandaged the cut quickly before pulling up his boxers and helping him into the sweatpants and t-shirt I had brought for him when I got the First-Aid kit.

“Thank you,” he said quietly while I washed my hands and cleaned up. I nodded and followed him back out to the living room.

“I’ll pick up some antibiotics for you tomorrow and I’m calling Cuddy to tell her you’re taking the next few days off.” I held up a hand to stall the comments I could see brewing. “You’re slightly feverish and you should be off your feet as much as possible to let that heal. Don’t even argue.”

“But _mom_ ,” he whined and I couldn’t stop the smile that tugged on the corners of my mouth despite the fact that he was giving in way too easily. I stood up to get fresh beers for us both and called Cuddy to make my excuses before I called in for Chinese take-out as well. I handed him the beer as I sat on the couch next to him and there was a comfortable silence for a while.

“So… do you want to tell me what happened?” I finally asked. “Angry patient? Unsatisfied hooker?”

“Angry, unsatisfied patient who’s a hooker,” House replied flippantly. I just rolled my eyes and he shrugged, taking another pull of beer. “I got mugged last night. Damn kids roughed me up a bit when I wouldn’t cooperate and took my wallet. They ran when a patrol car started driving up the street.”

I didn’t have to ask whether he had gone to the police. House’s pride wouldn’t have allowed him to go to the police for something like this even before the whole Tritter thing; now, he avoided the police like the plague.

And he wasn’t telling me everything. I could tell that much from the way he constantly moved his head, looking anywhere but at me. Sure, it was mostly humiliation, but it was also partly lying.

“Okay... What else did they do?” I asked neutrally, trying to think back on his injuries to see if they would tell me the answer. The bruises and even the stabbing was pretty typical of a mugging, but the cut on his leg… it was obviously caused by the knife. It was too clean and straight to be anything else and the little punctures were consistent with a knife point. But it was in such an odd place; they would have cut through his jeans and boxers and there was no reason…

_My God_ …

“House,” I said slowly. He was already shaking his head. “ _House_. What else did they do?” He didn’t respond. “ _Jesus._ Greg, if they raped you—”

“They didn’t rape me,” he snapped, his blue eyes piercing me with a fiery glare. He wasn’t lying. “They _tried_ to rape me. One of them got a cane to the balls for his trouble and the rest ran when the cop came by.”

“My God, House… I-I don’t know where to start,” I stammered. I stared at my best friend, horror and compassion flooding my system. I knew how much House valued his pride, control, and privacy—more than a firstborn child, probably—and last night he had been stripped of all three. House’s unshakable sense of imperviousness and safety had been shaken, if not destroyed. I only had an inkling of how he might react to something like this and I could already tell that it wouldn’t be good.

“You can start by wiping that disgustingly melty ‘kicked puppy’ look off of your face,” House scoffed, rolling his eyes. “They were stupid, asshole kids, not a gang-bangin’ chain gang. I’m _fine_. I should be flattered, really. Haven’t been jumped like that since college, but unfortunately, these guys only wanted me for my hot bod.”

“As opposed to what, your sparkling personality?” I answered automatically, before I blinked and shook my head, running my hands through my hair agitatedly. House had me too well trained. “Dammit, House, this isn’t a joke! You-you nearly got raped—if not killed! You have to take this seriously; this is your life, your _body_ that we’re talking about.”

“God, Wilson, I’m not some weepy, angst-ridden teenager. It was _attempted_ rape; much less painful and traumatic than _actual_ rape—don’t worry, I won’t be jumping off bridges any time soon. Instead, I’m going to sit back and have a chuckle at giving the horny little bastard some _real_ blueballs.”

“House…”

“See? This is why I didn’t want to tell you; despite my best efforts, you continue to have absolutely no sense of humor.”

“But—”

“ _Leave_ it, Wilson!” House’s voice cracked like a whip and I winced. I had pushed too hard. I’d be lucky if House would speak to me the rest of the night now. I sighed and leaned back into the comfortable couch while House turned on the TV to some monster truck rally and turned the sound up. He didn’t speak at all and only grunted when I got up and got the Chinese from the delivery guy and dished it out for both of us.

Two hours, three beers, four empty take-out containers, and five different crappy shows later, I was wondering if I should go back to my own apartment. My thinking was decidedly fuzzy by this point, but I seemed to remember thinking earlier this evening that I was going to stay at House’s place for the night. I also remembered deciding that that would be a bad idea, but to be honest I couldn’t remember why. Something about House smothering me in my sleep. But that couldn’t be right, could it? After all, House loved me. He practically said so earlier. I turned to ask him his opinion on the matter and found him snoring propped up against the other arm of the chair, looking exhausted.

I felt that warm, melty, fuzzy puppy feeling rise up within me—or was that vomit? No, I was fine, it was definitely warm fuzzy emotions—and I managed to lean closer and drag the throw from the back of the couch over both of us before I passed out completely.

* * *

I woke blearily only a few hours later. In my sleep I had slumped against House’s shoulder and I shifted over to find a more comfortable spot. However, I was instantly awake when I heard his deep voice curse and gasp in pain. I sat up and peered through the darkness, trying to see what was causing him pain. It was his leg this time; sleeping in a sitting position on his couch had wreaked havoc on his remaining thigh muscles and I cursed myself for getting too drunk to wake him up and send him to bed.

“Greg? Greg, what do you need?” I asked, my own voice gravelly with sleep.

“I need you to shut up and get me my damn Vicodin!” He snarled at me, bent protectively over his leg and trying to knead the cramping muscles. I shut up and searched the coffee table for the small bottle of pills, trying to ignore his groans of pain. I found it a moment later, knocked to the floor and rolled behind a table leg, and I popped it open and handed him two pills. He swallowed them immediately and continued to rock through the vicious cramping.

I watched him for a moment before I moved to kneel in front of him. Carefully, moving slowly enough for him to protest if he wanted to, I slid my hands up his ruined leg to the rock-hard, wasted muscle and started massaging it with deep, firm strokes. My fingers were kept strong and supple just for this purpose and Greg let out a long groan, leaning his head back on the couch and moving his hands to grip the couch on either side of him. I knew it would be painful for him at first, but it was also one of the quickest ways to end a spasm without resorting to chemical means.

Greg wouldn’t let me do this for him very often, no matter how many times I offered. He was deeply ashamed of the brutal scar and wasted flesh; he never let anyone see it, much less touch it, if he could help it. In fact, I was the only person I knew of that Greg would allow to touch it besides his doctors and it was probably because of my massages. I had never left House’s side through all of the surgeries, all of the physical therapy, and he knew I had made it a point to learn all of the tricks the physical therapists had used to help him work through the pain. He knew I didn’t care about the scar. I cared about helping him ease the pain when nothing else would.

The muscle was yielding now, the cramps reduced to painful quivers, and I worked through those as well, making my tired fingers gentler. My knees hurt where they were pressed against the hardwood floor. Greg panted and sweated as if he had run a mile, his grip on the couch loosening and his eyes closed. He moved a hand to cup the back of my head, patting it and running his long fingers through my hair in a comforting gesture. Just like every time he did this, I was never sure who it was supposed to be comforting to. The muscles finally relaxed under my fingers but I didn’t remove my hands, letting my body heat seep through and warm the area.

Greg’s body shuddered and I unconsciously rubbed my hands back and forth in small soothing gestures. My eyes rested on the overturned pill bottle and I let my mind drift while I waited for Greg to recover enough to move. Ten minutes passed. My legs were numb by the time Greg let out a small moan. His hand tightened in my hair.

“Dammit,” he hissed between his teeth and I looked up at him. “Stop that, Jimmy, before—” He broke off as his breath hitched and I removed my hands immediately, concerned that I had inadvertently caused him pain. But I instantly understood when I saw the prominent bulge outlined in Greg’s loose sweatpants. I blinked. This hadn’t happened in a while. It was a common enough reaction to the easing of extreme pain combined with close physical contact—to Greg’s touch-starved body, my simple massage and warm presence was highly pleasurable.

“Sorry,” I murmured. My voice was still gravelly.

Greg’s hand tightened when I tried to pull away, almost unconsciously holding me in place for a long moment before he removed it. His darkened eyes watched me, intent and curious, as I straightened and bent my legs to restore circulation. Only when my eyes met his did caution return and he looked away.

Wordlessly, I held my hand out. He didn’t hesitate to take it. Together, me supporting his weight most of the way, we shuffled to the bedroom, making a quick side stop at the bathroom for House to pee. He shook me off once we reached the bed, snapping at me to go back to sleep, and I did so after wishing him goodnight. He grunted in reply.

Yawning cavernously, I made my own stop at the bathroom before going back to the living room. I collapsed onto the couch, a week of sleep deprivation finally hitting me like a ton of bricks and sending me into welcome oblivion.

When I next woke, the living room was filled with light and an object—it wasn’t difficult to identify it as House’s cane; I had been assaulted with it more times than I can remember—was poking me in the stomach. I groaned and swatted at it half-heartedly, but it simply moved to my legs, prodding until I drew them up close to my body. The couch dipped as House settled on the other end. The TV snapped on a moment later and blared the theme song for _General Hospital._

_Wait._ General Hospital _? That doesn’t start until two o’clock in the after… Oh, shi—_

I cursed and sat up, blinking owlishly in the light and trying to ignore the pounding in my head as I scrambled to extricate myself from the nest of blankets I had made. I ignored House, who was watching me with amusement, and bolted to the bathroom. I made the water in the shower as hot as I dared and undressed before jumping inside. Ten minutes later I was in front of the mirror in a towel, attempting to brush my teeth and shave simultaneously, when a knock came at the door and House leaned inside.

He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it with a snap, looking me up and down for a long moment before that expression of amusement came over his face again. I tried not to think about how ridiculous I must look. I bent over and washed my face and mouth clean to avoid looking at him.

“You are truly the master of innovation, Jimmy,” House said. “D’you want pancakes, eggs, or both for breakfast?”

“Breakfast? House, it’s two o’clock in the…” I trailed off as a horrible thought occurred to me. I pushed past my best friend, heedless of my state of undress, and went into the living room where the episode of _General Hospital_ was paused mid-scene. TiVo’d. The clock above the TV read 10:36. My shoulders slumped and I lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Both, it is!”

“House…”

“Better hurry up. I only cleared you through lunch with Cuddy and I know how long it takes you to get ready in the morning.” House limped past me, snagging my towel on the way. I grabbed it so it didn’t fall. “Did I mention you’re the one making the pancakes?” He said over his shoulder.

I just sighed and shook my head as I went back to the bathroom, smiling a little despite myself because the joke—and his returned sense of humor—meant that House really was doing okay. But that didn’t stop me from taking over twenty minutes to dry my hair and finish getting ready out of spite. When I got to the kitchen, there was a plate of cold eggs waiting for me on the table and House was sitting at the table reading a medical journal.

“This man is a jackass,” House grumbled, grabbing a pen and crossing out the paragraphs that didn’t meet his standards.

“You’re in a good mood,” I observed. It was true. Normally, he would have ripped the article out completely. And making breakfast for me was practically House frolicking in a cornflower meadow. Rummaging through the cupboards for bowls and ingredients, I began making the macadamia nut pancakes he loved so much.

“I had a great conversation with the hooker in my closet after you fell asleep last night. Well, I talked; she had her mouth full.” I paused for a moment before I continued as though he hadn’t said anything. I remembered the erection he had had before he went to bed last night. He probably _had_ taken care of it after I had left; it would explain why he was in such a good mood this morning.

“I’m sure the topics were scintillating—politics, philosophy, ethics…” I replied dryly.

“So sarcastic, Jimmy! Candy is not your average corner joyride—she’s _edumacated_.”

“Good for you. I take it you slept well after your ‘conversation’, then? Your leg bothering you at all?”

“Best night’s sleep in three weeks. Best meal, too,” House added when I placed a stack of silver dollar pancakes on his plate. “Leg’s just peachy. Always is after you’re through with it.”

“You’re laying it on thick today,” I said warily, suddenly wondering if he had done something else to the clock. “That reminds me; what did you do to my apartment?” House’s blue eyes widened.

“You mean you don’t know yet? Damn, he must’ve gotten stuck somewhere and died.”

I groaned and reached up to pinch the bridge of my nose again.

“You were sleeping pretty good, too. I don’t think I’ve seen you sleep past nine in years.”

“I didn’t sleep very well the last few weeks either,” I admitted. I served myself breakfast and dug in. “There was a homosexual couple in the room next to mine at the hotel for the last week and they kept waking me up.”

“Oh yeah, I bet you were ‘up’ all night long,” House leered. “Chicks or dicks?”

I rolled my eyes at his immaturity. “They were men.”

“Nice.”

There was a beat of silence, but nothing else was forthcoming. “What, that’s it?” I said incredulously. “I thought for sure I would be hearing about that for weeks after I told you. Now I’m really worried—what else did you do to my apartment?”

House shrugged. “What do you expect? A horrified, self-righteous rant? I thought you knew me better than that, Jimmy.”

“Well, no, of course not…” I said, flustered. I had known House was bisexual since before the infarction, just like he knew that I was bi-curious, but I had expected more of a reaction than this. “I mean… well, come on, House, you haven’t had a relationship with anyone—from either sex—since Stacy. You never miss the opportunity to make tasteless jokes about stuff like this.”

“But I _have_ had a lot of sex,” he pointed out. I didn’t respond; we both knew that wasn’t true. “Meanwhile, _you_ haven’t been laid in months; I figured the gay guys just reminded you about it. You’re hard up; no shame in it.”

I flushed. “I am _not_ —” I protested hotly before I cut myself off. It was partially true—I _had_ been feeling a bit lonely lately—but House didn’t have to point it out so matter-of-factly. It made me sound like a nymphomaniac. “Anyway, how do _you_ know if I’ve had sex lately? Maybe I just didn’t tell you; I don’t tell you everything, you know.”

“You don’t _have_ to,” House said, rolling his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, looking just about as amused with the conversation as I was uncomfortable. “I’ve known you for fifteen years, Jimmy, and I’ve been around for enough of your conquests that I practically know what you look like when you come. Trust me, I can tell when you’ve had sex.”

I shut up. Stuffing the last of the pancakes in my mouth, I took our plates to the sink and began cleaning up. My face was burning. My best friend was a misanthropic genius whose powers of observation and deduction were more powerful than anyone I knew. No matter how many times I see him work on a case, it never ceases to awe me. But it had been so long since that keen, knowing gaze had been on me that I had forgotten just how well this man knew me. He probably knew me better than I did.

I liked to think that that road, at least, went both ways.

* * *

Cuddy caught me just as I was walking through to the doors of Princeton-Plainsboro. I hunched my shoulders a little and quickened my steps, vainly hoping that looking hurried would hold her off. I was wrong.

“Wilson!” She called as I pressed the button for the elevator. I turned, feeling like a kid whose parents had discovered the lamp he had broken. Cuddy had a way of doing that.

“Yes?” I asked as the elevator doors opened. She stepped inside with me.

“What’s wrong with House?” She asked point-blank.

“Uh… Good afternoon to you, too.” I stalled. Obviously she didn’t believe the half-hearted excuses I gave her over the phone. Despite the fact that she hadn’t noticed when House was hurt, she really was a very sharp woman who cared about _all_ of the doctors under her administration. I couldn’t really hold it against her—it was _House_ , after all, and even I had some trouble spotting things sometimes. “He’s feverish and ill. His leg has been giving him more pain than usual and I forced him to stayhome.” I admitted finally.

Concern flitted over her pretty face briefly before skepticism replaced it. “Are you sure this isn’t some elaborate plot to get him out of the clinic hours he owes me for the last three weeks?”

I shrugged. “Sort of. He _is_ sick and I _did_ have to force him to stay home, but I also thought it would be better for everyone if he stayed away from the hospital for a day or two to get his bearings back. Once he gets bored of sitting around and a case comes his way, he’ll be back to normal.”

“And won’t that be a relief,” she said, with only minimal sarcasm. She really was relieved.

“The way he’s got us wrapped around his finger really is quite disgusting,” I commented.

“Don’t even get me started.” Cuddy shook her head, her dark curls swaying attractively. “I have a hard enough time justifying my actions to my psychiatrist.” I laughed. The elevator doors opened and I stepped out, leaving Cuddy inside to go to another floor. “You know I trust you to keep House in line,” she said as the doors closed again. “Don’t let him take advantage of you. I want him back in here by tomorrow!”

I threw a mock salute to the closed doors with a cheeky grin, not noticing how the young nurses at the consultation desk giggled and sighed as I turned and walked to my office. I managed to concentrate on my work for the rest of the day despite the thoughts of House’s situation lurking in the back of my mind.

House’s physical injuries were the least of my worries. Although the fever was not a good sign, it was likely to be completely cured by the broad-spectrum antibiotics I would pick up for him later and the bruises would fade within a few days. It was the psychological reaction I was worried about. It hadn’t manifested itself yet; House was at ease in his home in a way that he rarely is anywhere else and he was with a person he knew he didn’t have to worry about giving his control up to. He was in a good mood from jerking off the night before. No, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop so that I could be there to deal with the fallout when it did.

Although malicious gossip said that Dr. Gregory House didn’t _have_ emotions, I knew that wasn’t true. House had always experienced emotions differently from other people. His actions toward patients or others in pain made him seem cold and calculating usually because he _was_ cold and calculating at that moment. He felt the same emotions and thoughts that everyone else did, but it was usually after the fact—a delayed reaction in his brain that was no doubt linked to his traumatic childhood. After all, it had taken him over a week for it to hit that his own father was dead. It made him the best of doctors to have a cool head during any sort of crisis, but it also made him a crappy human being.

I didn’t stay late to finish the ever-growing pile of paperwork on my desk. I swung by the grocery store on my way home ( _House’s apartment_ , a part of my mind pointed out disapprovingly, but I shrugged and ignored it since House’s apartment had been _home_ on some level for the past fifteen years) since three weeks without me nagging him had left House in dire straits in the food department. Stacy and I were likely the only people on the planet that knew that House was actually a more than decent cook but his general laziness and arrogance prevented him from doing it often. He only cooked when there was someone else to cook for and when he was feeling particularly generous. _Or when he’s trying to get laid_ , I amended, thinking of House’s early engagement to Stacy. He had been so happy back then…

My thoughts ground to an abrupt halt when I pulled up to the apartment and saw that his bike was missing. I cursed and groped for my phone, cursing again when I realized that I had been so distracted by House that I hadn’t even bought a new cell phone yet. I got out of the car, forgetting to lock it, and used my key to unlock the door. The apartment was nearly the same as I had left it, except the TV was off, House wasn’t parked on the couch with a bag of potato chips, and his leather jacket was gone. I checked the bedroom, bathroom, and closets just in case. He wasn’t there.

Pulling out my pager and preparing to type out a message to Cuddy to rally the troops as I headed back to the front door, I was nearly brained when it opened just as I was reaching for the handle. I yelped and reeled back in pain, clutching my nose and closing my eyes tightly.

“God, Jimmy, you should really watch that enormously Jewish schnoz of yours,” House said as he limped past, kicking the door shut as he did so. “I nearly took the thing off; what would all those nubile young nurses do if your pretty face was disfigured?”

“House?! Where were you?” I asked angrily, checking my nose for blood. I was relieved to see that there was none; House’s little comment had hit me harder than I liked to admit, no doubt as he’d intended. House lowered himself gingerly to the couch and popped a pill before digging around in his jacket pocket and withdrawing a small bundled up plastic sack. He tossed it at me, gesturing lazily for me to open it.

“You… got me a cell phone?” I said, bewildered. It was one of those stylishly slim sliding ones packed with tons of useless gadgets, still in its package, which was a startlingly considerate gesture for House. Not only that, but he had left the receipt in the bag, giving me the option to return it if I wanted to. I looked up in confusion. House was watching me, his eyes intent and curious but his expression carefully uninterested.

“I… thank you,” I said finally. I looked at it again, turning it over and over in my hands. It was the kind of phone House would get for himself—no doubt he would steal it at earliest opportunity and program it with the most obnoxious, possibly embarrassing ringtones—and yet it was unobtrusive enough for my conservative tastes. My heart warmed and I looked up at my best friend again with a smile. “I really appreciate it; you have no idea how many times I tried to call you or the hospital while I was gone before I remembered that I had dropped it in that stupid bar.”

“Do I get a treat now, too, Mommy?” House replied, rolling his eyes and heaving himself up from the couch. Obviously, he had reached his limited capacity for receiving gratitude and was beating a hasty retreat before the situation became more emotional. “Unlimited macadamia nut pancakes would be the preferred—”

“The groceries!” I blurted suddenly, dropping the phone onto the table and hurrying out the door to my car. Luckily, I wasn’t gone long enough for anything to melt or spoil, so I lugged in all of the bags in three trips. By the time I had locked up the car and entered the apartment for the last time, House had already rooted through the bags and had set some onions, peppers, ham, and spices on the stove to be sautéed. The heavenly aroma enveloped me and I carefully set the last of the bags on the table, my eyes wide in disbelief.

_House is cooking dinner?_ My mind repeated the thought mindlessly. It had been months since House had last cooked for us. Almost unbidden, my thought from earlier today rose up in my mind; _House only cooked when there was someone to cook for, when he was feeling generous, and when he wanted to get laid._

It was already established that I was there and House had been feeling uncommonly generous lately… _So does that mean he wants to get laid?_ My mind reeled from the thought and I couldn’t stop a blush from infusing my neck and cheeks. _Oh God…_ That couldn’t be it. House would never… and besides, he still hadn’t dealt with the attempted rape properly yet. No, no, there had to be another reason. He was… just trying to get something from me. Yes, that made more sense. House wanted something from me—not sex!—and he was trying to bribe me for it. That sounded much more like something House would do.

“Alright, what do you want?” I asked, unconsciously adopting my patented hands-on-hips stance.

“World peace,” House replied without missing a beat. “A fluffy new kitten. An autographed picture with Harrison Ford. A hot hooker with a tight—”

“I _meant_ ,” I said, exasperated. “What do you want from _me_? You’ve been acting weird ever since I got back from Minnesota—giving me compliments, getting me a new phone, and now you’re making dinner! You’re being… _nice_. And Gregory House isn’t _nice_ —at least not like this. So it stands to reason that you’re doing this because you want something. It would be nice if you just told me; you’re starting to freak me out.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” House replied, cracking three eggs into a bowl and adding a splash of milk before mixing it up. He removed the sautéed vegetables and poured more oil into the pan before adding the eggs. “Relax, Jimmy, it’s nothing. You’re over-thinking things again.” Within minutes he had a perfect ham and cheese omelet sizzling away in the pan and soon it occupied both of our plates as we sat at the table. I couldn’t stop my stomach from grumbling or my mouth from watering at the smell.

I didn’t reply in favor of sampling the meal. I let out a low moan of pleasure as the flavor burst onto my tongue. All of my wives agreed on two things while they were with me and even afterwards: the best things about our marriage were the food and the sex. Both, they insisted, were equally amazing and I had taken some pride in that. Unfortunately, a _proper_ marriage could not survive on food and sex alone. Now, if I had been in a relationship with a man, whose needs were generally simpler than a woman’s…

I backed away from that thought so fast it was a wonder I didn’t get mental whiplash. Thoughts like these had been sneaking up on me more and more often since Julie had left me and I was quick to nip them in the bud. I wasn’t ready to try another _heterosexual_ relationship yet, much less try to jump into uncharted waters like bisexuality. Besides, I was too old for that sort of thing anyway.

_Anyway_ , back to the food, I had never really been able to master the art of the perfect omelet. House had been able to do it ever since I had known him. It was a common pattern in our relationship; if one lacked a trait or talent, the other usually had it in spades. It’s what made us such good friends.

“You’re thinking again.”

I looked up, catching House’s gaze. He was watching me, his blue eyes dark and fathomless, his omelet barely touched. As if someone had flipped a switch, the room was suddenly full of static-like tension and uncertainty flooded my body, wrecking my equilibrium. I swallowed hard.

“Er… I was just thinking about how I've never been able to make a good omelet,” I said, trying to lighten in atmosphere with a rueful chuckle.

“If you keep making the sounds you’ve been making for the past ten minutes then I’ll make them more often.” His voice was low and silky in a way I hadn’t quite heard before and confused me even more. But there was a hint of a smirk around his lips and I grabbed that familiarity and jumped on the defensive like a wounded animal.

“Hey, my wives were crappy cooks, alright? It’s not often that someone else cooks better than I do.”

“And you’re modest, too.” House replied dryly and some of the tension vanished, much to my relief. The rest of the night passed normally enough. Although House would have surely mentioned something, I checked his bandages before he went to bed to check that his little adventure had not ripped his cuts or sutures. He whined and complained about taking the antibiotics, too, but that wasn’t anything abnormal, so I crashed on the couch with the relief that the worst part was over. House probably wouldn’t need a babysitter any longer and I could return to my apartment the next night.

My empty, cold apartment, devoid of any life or personality.

I didn’t relish the thought of going back. Perhaps I could stay with House just a few more days and make sure he was alright. _Besides, I have to get him to tell me what he had left in my apartment that had died._

Thus reassured, I slipped off into a deep sleep filled with warmth and half-remembered faces.

* * *

Despite my protests that he should stay at home and recover more, House was back at work the next day. I gave Cuddy an apologetic,  _what’re-you-gonna-do_ shrug as House blasted his way through the hospital like a force of nature, scattering nurses and patients alike before his mocking glare and barbed tongue. I followed behind, soothing ruffled feathers and pricked egos with sympathetic, apologetic smiles. The nurses seemed to sway with relief and gratitude when they saw me and I had no doubt that, if I wanted to, I could have several of them occupying my table or my bed throughout the week.

I _was_ sorely tempted… but no, House needed me right now and he was more important than a quick lay. I grumped inwardly as I followed House to his office, trying to soothe my dismayed libido. House would never know just how much I gave up for this friendship…

“Now be nice to the other kids, and don’t forget to mind your manners with Cuddy,” I lectured with a smirk outside the diagnostics room. “I’ll be back around noon to take you to lunch. And try not to push yourself too much, ok?”

“Yes, _mother_ ,” House responded with biting sarcasm. His fellows inside were watching with obvious amusement. “What, no goodbye kiss?” He called loudly as I walked to my own office. I rolled my eyes and ignored him.

The problems didn’t begin until the next morning, when House got a case.

I had seen neither hide nor hair of House all morning and I had taken the opportunity to finally catch up on all of those papers from the previous three weeks. I worked all through lunch, eager to be rid of the endless paperwork, and I had emerged only for refills of my coffee. House’s glass-walled office and meeting room were empty but the white board was full of House’s distinctive writing and a discreet question or two confirmed that House had a new case. A real doozy, too.

Slightly relieved, I retreated back into my office and continued working uninterrupted for several hours. Over a comfortable dinner the night before, House had shown me how to work my new cell phone and I made it a point to text him at one o’clock.

_Haven’t seen you much today. How’s your leg? Side?_

_Busy. Both fine. See you later._

And that was it. Normally, House’s texts were disjointed and filled with enough sexual innuendo to rival any teenager’s, but during cases he often cut it down to one-liners. Or when he was in pain. But today he was working on an apparently difficult case and I wasn’t going to bother him.

At ten past three, there was a short knock on my office door.

“Come in,” I called absently, searching through a stack of papers for a patient’s history. I glanced up as Foreman slipped through the door. He was wearing a pair of blue scrubs instead of his usual neat suit, which meant that his suit had met with some sort of vile, most likely bodily, substance found in the hospital, and his expression was drawn tight in a way I immediately recognized as House-induced.

“What’s wrong with House?” Foreman asked abruptly, his nostrils flaring. I sighed and my shoulders slumped. People had been asking me that a lot lately.

“There are a lot of things wrong with him. What happened?”

“He’s gone completely insane! Seriously, I never thought I’d say this, but any last bit of self-control he ever had is gone. He’s been jerking us around ever since we got this case—worse than normally, I mean. He calls for tests that make no sense then insults us for doing them. He orders us to give the patient a treatment then chews us out when we try to argue that it will kill the guy. He’s wasting our time, resources, and what’s left of the patient’s health on his power plays. At this rate the patient is going to die.”

I stood up. “Where is he?” I asked curtly as I shrugged into my lab coat.

“MRI.”

Cuddy walked through the door just as we were reaching it and she released a sigh when she saw us. “Thank God,” she said, turning to follow us to the MRI room. “I’ve been getting complaints from the patient and his family all day and even I’ve got to admit that he’s not acting normal. He’s been taking potshots at anyone who comes near him.”

“Weren’t things supposed to get better when you came back?” Foreman grumbled under his breath while Cuddy updated me on the patient’s case. I pressed my lips together and didn’t respond, wondering if the other shoe had finally dropped.

There was a commotion in the MRI room. Thirteen and Taub were trying to hold down a patient who was seizing on the MRI table and House was shouting something through the speakers in the observation room.

“No, House, we’ve got to get him to stop seizing!” Thirteen was shouting back. “He’s not stable enough for this; he’s going back to his room.”

“No!” House slammed his cane against the glass, his expression dark with anger and frustration. “We have to do an MRI! Sedate him, put him under! Now!”

“We don’t need to do an MRI; it’s not his brain!” Taub shouted back. I had heard enough. I stormed through the room and entered the observation room, slamming the separating door shut behind me hard enough to rattle the windows. House jerked and stared at me with an unfamiliar glint in his eye, his lip curling.

“Come to save the day, Wonder Boy?”

I put my hands on my hips, trying to go for the normal approach. “What, torturing the staff wasn’t enough? You had to torture the patient, too?” House rolled his eyes.

“Oh, spare me the—hey, _he_ y _!”_ He shouted suddenly, banging his cane against the glass again. The patient had stopped seizing and Thirteen and Taub were preparing to transfer him onto a gurney. House reached for the door behind me but I blocked it, placing my hand against his chest to stop him.

“House. What’s going on?” I asked seriously.

“I’ll tell you what’s going on, they’re moving my patient without my permission!” House snarled. “And you’re in my way.”

And suddenly I understood. Just as I had suspected, this was the reaction that had been missing from the attack. House had been stripped of his sense of safety, pride, and his precious control all in one fell swoop. It only made sense that he would try to regain it the only way he knew how; by exerting his control over others. He had been doing it ever since the day I had come back, I realized. Everything; from allowing me to treat him, to making dinner, to disobeying me and leaving to buy me a cell phone, to coming to work early and terrorizing his staff.

He was trying to regain the control he felt that he had lost. Acting in unexpected ways, dragging his staff around and insulting them in the same vicious breath, pushing and pushing and pushing to the very brink but knowing that _he_ was the one who was making the decisions, _he_ was the one controlling how far things went.

I steeled myself. He had left me alone so far since he knew that he didn’t have to worry about losing or giving up control to me, but once I started pushing back he would strike out at me just as viciously.

“I’m sorry, House,” I said, turning and giving Cuddy a look and a nod through the glass. She nodded back and cleared the room of curious nurses and House’s staff before leaving us alone.

“What the hell, Wilson?” House snapped, trying to reach the door but failing as I continued to block it.

“With Cuddy’s permission, I’m taking you off the case,” I said firmly. “You’re in no shape to treat a patient. You’ve been acting like a madman—the patient will likely die before you’ve worked through this. Let Cuddy and your team handle this one.”

“Like hell I will! And where the hell do you get off—”

“I’m your best friend and I know you better than anyone else out there; that’s where I get off,” I said forcefully. “You’re trying to regain your sense of control after an event that took away all of your control. I know you think that actual rape is worse than attempted rape—and you’re certainly right about that—but that doesn’t mean that it’s any less traumatic—”

“Are you still going on about that?” House asked incredulously. “Dammit, Wilson, if I wanted a shrink for a best friend I would’ve told you that when we first met.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense. You were bailing me out of jail when we first met,” I sighed and gentled my tone. “Listen, House, there was no reason for what those bastards did to you and it’s not your fault that you couldn’t get away. You were outnumbered and crippled; no one could beat odds like that.”

“ _I_ could’ve!” House roared, slamming his cane down again, and I tried to suppress a flinch but wasn’t completely successful. House’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I _should’ve_ …” He stopped speaking and looked off to the side, absently rubbing his leg. His left one this time, up near the hip where I knew the cut was. Cautiously, I took a step forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch.

“Go home, House,” I said softly. “There’s nothing else you can do here. You already know what’s wrong with him.” It wasn’t a question. After a long moment, House nodded, still looking away.

“He has a malignant strain of eastern equine encephalitis. He’s going to die.” House finally muttered. I closed my eyes for a long moment. More control taken away from him. _God, Greg…_

This time, when House reached for the door, I move to the side. “House…” I started, not even knowing what I was going to say, but the door slamming shut behind him cut me off and I flinched. He limped through the MRI room and vanished into the hallway. I stood in the dark, empty room alone for several long minutes and wondered if there was anything _to_ say. Probably not, I conceded.

With a sigh, I left the room and slowly made my way up to the diagnostics department. House was nowhere in sight but his fellows were gathered around the white board. I went inside to let them know the diagnosis.

“—it’s a good thing, too, or else someone would’ve given him a black eye to match the one he had two weeks ago,” Kutner was saying with a grin. I stopped cold.

“Who had a black eye?” I asked and all four of them jumped. Kutner gulped, looking guilty, and the other three shot him exasperated looks.

“No one!” Kutner’s voice squeaked and he cringed. “Um… I mean, well, I—We—weren’t supposed to say anything…”

I shifted my attention to the others and Taub rolled his eyes. “It was House. He came into work on Monday two weeks ago with a black eye and made us promise not to tell you. He said it was a bar fight.” I pressed my lips together and added it to the growing list of things I needed to talk to House about. Just not today.

“House left.” Foreman broke in. “He came in here, grabbed his stuff, and left like a bat out of hell.”

I nodded, bringing my thoughts back to the present. “I know, I told him to leave since he had already solved the case.”

“What?” Thirteen and Kutner burst out, looking pissed and relieved respectively. “He jerked us around for seven hours—”

“It’s a malignant strain of eastern equine encephalitis,” I interrupted, suddenly not feeling patient enough for their anger and indignity. “Too advanced. The patient’s going to die. There was nothing he could have done—nothing you can do.” I left them standing in a stunned silence and retreated to my office again. I sat at my desk and stared at the papers for a long moment, debating whether I should go home. Finally, I decided to leave House to think and deal with the death of his patient alone for a while before I joined him. Sighing, I pulled one of the last stacks of paper toward me and got back to work.

Three hours later, I pulled up to 221B with a bag of take out and a crappy Chris Tucker movie, ready to carry out the same routine we had had every time a patient died for fifteen years. Or every time we broke up with someone. Or whenever something bad happened. Needless to say, the routine wasn’t much different from the normal nights we hung out. Eat take out, watch a crappy movie, get drunk, sleep it off.

I hadn’t expected House to get started without me.

The apartment was dark except for the light from the bathroom spilling onto the hallway floor and the TV was off, which was odd. It was eerily silent. Still in the doorway, I looked around, but House wasn’t hunched on the piano bench nor was he sprawled out on the couch. I had a sudden vision of House face down on the floor, vomit splattered from his mouth from too much Vicodin and too much alcohol and too much pain—

I cut myself off, shaking my head. House wouldn’t OD again. His patients had died before and he hadn’t tried to kill himself. _But he hadn’t been almost raped three days beforehand, either_ , my mind whispered to me. I took another step into the apartment.

“Hou—ah!” I was cut off with a strangled cry as an arm wrapped around my neck from behind and pulled tight, cutting off my air. The door was ripped from my grasp and slammed shut behind me and I was slammed against it face first, stars exploding behind my eyes from the impact. I dropped the bag of food and the movie, the clatter of plastic against the hardwood floor on the periphery of my senses. A lean, hard body was pressed close to my back, as unforgiving and immovable as stone. My hands scrabbled for purchase against the arm around my neck, but the other man’s wiry strength was greater than mine.

The arm suddenly loosened and I dragged in a deep breath, smelling rich bourbon and the bitterness of Vicodin. I could recognize that scent anywhere.

“H- _House?_ ” I gasped hoarsely. “Wh-what the hell—” The arm tightened again and I was choked off.

“Hush, Jimmy. You’re always thinking too much.” House’s voice was dark and low like velvet and the heat of it brushed against my neck. My best friend pressed even closer to me, his heat and scent and presence enveloping me like a blanket. The arm loosened a little, enough for me to draw in quick, thin breaths, but the warning was in the whipcord strength of his arms—those arms that I had been admiring only two nights ago, I remembered.

“I can always tell when you’re thinking,” House went on, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re like an open book to me, Jimmy. So easy to read. I’ll bet you think that I’m easy to read, too. You’re always telling me how I _feel_ , what I should do to feel _better_. Bet you didn’t see this coming, did you?” He wrenched his arm tight and I gagged.

My mind was reeling, dizzy with shock and pain and lack of air, and my thoughts were tumbling over and over trying to put these events into some semblance of order. But I was coming up with nothing. This didn’t make sense and I feared that I might pass out before I could figure it out, before it wouldn’t matter anymore. But the arm loosened again and I breathed in raggedly.

“The perfectly pleasant Dr. James Wilson, Wonder Boy oncologist,” House mused. “So nice, so caring, so _perfect_ , except for his wandering dick. I wonder why his wives could never satisfy him? After all, it must be _their_ fault since _he’s_ so kind and funny and _generous_ —he’s even friends with that crippled bastard House. That’s what everyone thinks. But they’re wrong, aren’t they, Jimmy?” House’s nose buried itself behind my ear and his stubble rasped against my neck. My body shivered and I could feel him smile. “I know your little secret. You’re,” he gently nipped the side of my neck, “Just as screwed up,” he bit harder and I let out a whimper, “As I am.”

“ _God…_ ” My voice was thin and shaky. His chest rumbled with a chuckle against my back.

“And you’ve been thinking lately. _Why_ couldn’t _my wives satisfy me? Why can’t I be the kind of man every woman needs?_ Oh, yes, you’ve been thinking, Jimmy. _Maybe the kind of woman_ I _need isn’t a_ woman _at all._ As hard as you try to fight it, after three failed marriages and countless fucks with random women, your bi-curiosity is getting the best of you. You’re starting to wonder if your _curiosity_ isn’t really _curiosity_ anymore…”

His hypnotic voice was winding through my mind, throwing off my thoughts with every stressed word and every hot breath. My mind was swimming, drowning, and I desperately fought for rational thought as my traitorous body began reacting to House’s words and voice and body and smell and _God_ , was he always this powerful?

House’s other hand slid under my suit coat and up my side in a slow caress. My body trembled against his, my breath coming in short pants, and House’s mouth was doing sinful things to my neck and ear—things I had never imagined could be better than when a woman did them. But House was taller than me and possessive and demanding and I was starting to forget why this shouldn’t be happening right now.

“Don’t you want to find out?” House breathed against my throat. His hips pressed against my ass and I could feel his penis twitch, already half-hard even as his hand left my side and slid over my belly. My muscles clenched and fluttered at the light touch and he chuckled again. Then his hand drifted down and cupped my half-hard cock, tracing its shape and squeezing gently. I jerked and stiffened, my breath hitching. Things were moving too fast all of a sudden; I had never so much as touched a man in a sexual manner before and now House was rubbing himself against me and his hand was stroking my cock through my pants and his mouth was latched onto my neck, sucking and sucking…

“N-no,” I gasped, twisting my head from side to side. “ _God_ , House, d-don’t do this—”

His mouth released my neck with a lurid pop. “Everybody lies. Doesn’t matter what your mouth says, Jimmy, your cock is telling the truth,” he growled. To my shock, his arm released my neck only to drag his hand down my chest and dig into the fabric near the buttons. He yanked hard and the buttons ripped off, hitting the ground with faint clicks. His hand stroked the skin of my chest softly and I cried out when he squeezed and tweaked a nipple until it was hard. His cock was hard against my lower back and his breath came in breathless pants while he rocked his hips against me.

Panic stabbed through the haze House had created, shame and horror following swiftly after as I abruptly remembered why House was doing this. _Control._ He wasn’t doing this because he wanted to be with me, he was trying to regain his sense of control. In a way, the fact that he was trying to use sex—an act that inherently involved battling for dominance and ultimately _losing_ control—with _me_ of all people was telling, but I couldn’t think about that now. House was pulling roughly at my clothes, tugging my shirt and jacket back and attacking the curve of my shoulder with lips and teeth and tongue, but when his other hand began sliding down the front of my pants, I had had enough.

“No, House, _stop_!” I snarled, wrenching free of his grasp. I dropped to my knees and—silently praying for forgiveness—drove my elbow into House’s right thigh. House dropped like a log. He curled around the injured muscle; gasping and retching in agony but unable to make a sound. His blue eyes were wide and unseeing as he tried to deal with the pain. I crawled to his side, my own eyes blurred with tears that dropped to the floor unnoticed. He finally blinked and stared at me through a haze of agony, disbelief shining clearly in the unguarded moment.

“God, Greg, I’m sorry,” I gasped, running my hand through his hair and the other down his arm that trembled with exertion as he gripped his leg uselessly. “So sorry, but I won’t let you do this to us.”

I sniffed and wiped away the tears that streaked his cheek. Mine or his, I wasn’t sure. I bent down and pressed a kiss to his temple. “I love you, Greg. We’ll work through this, just not this way. Not like this. I-I’m going to go now. I don’t think we should be around each other tonight. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

I stood up, swaying slightly as blood rushed to my head, and looked down at House who was lost to the pain again. “God, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. I shook my head, turned, and left my friend lying on the floor of his dark apartment.

* * *

“You look like crap.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cuddy.” I replied, trying to go for sarcastic but landing flatly on dull. _As if I didn’t know that alread_ y.

_“_ You’ve looked like crap for the past three days. Oddly enough, that coincides with House’s latest behavior. I wonder if the two are related?”

I sighed. “What did he do now?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And see, that’s the strange thing.” Cuddy leaned forward on my desk, giving me an eyeful of her abundant cleavage. My formerly voracious libido barely stirred. I wasn’t in the mood. I moved my tired gaze to her blue-grey eyes and left it there. “If you stopped hiding in your office or behind your patients, you would see what the entire hospital is seeing. House… isn’t being House. His insults are weak, his energy’s low, and when he got a case yesterday he just looked at the case file and told his team the answer. He barely leaves office, his limp is worse, and no one has seen him eat in days.”

My brow creased in concern and I straightened. “He hasn’t been eating?”

Cuddy shook her head. “Wilson, when I told House to go to the clinic this morning, he didn’t even complain. He didn’t say a word, he just went. And he’s been there ever since. _Working_.”

I stared in disbelief for a long moment. Then I shook my head and stood, rubbing my face with my hands as I walked to the window. “Dammit, House,” I muttered.

I hadn’t slept in the two nights since I had left House on the floor of his apartment. We had avoided each other at work and I hadn’t gone to his apartment again. Honestly, I was afraid. I was afraid that he might try to attack my wavering sexuality again... and I was afraid that I might give in.

A warm, slender hand settled lightly on my shoulder. “Wilson, what’s going on? It’s obviously killing you two.” Cuddy’s voice was warm and concerned but I knew that I couldn’t tell her. House would never forgive me.

“It’s… complicated,” I hedged. “I can’t tell you the details. We’re kind of going through a rough spot right now.”

“A rough spot?” Cuddy’s immaculate eyebrow rose. “A _rough spot_ is Vogler and Tritter. A rough spot is House nearly dying from overdosing or electrocuting himself. A rough spot is you breaking off your friendship and running away after Amber died. This is a…” she struggled for a word. “A lover’s spat _._ ”

“A—a what?” I spluttered, horrified.

“I haven’t seen the two of you this miserable since you betrayed House to Tritter, or since you left for the oncology seminar.”

“Cuddy, what are you talking about?” I hissed, looking around her to see if the door was closed. I lowered my voice. “House and I aren’t… _together_.” She rolled her eyes and gave me a pitying look, her voice patronizing.

“Of course not, but your friendship functions just like any other relationship, Wilson; in your own, twisted sort of way. One or both of you did something stupid and now you’re both feeling guilty and miserable about it.” Her mouth softened to a small smile when she saw my expression. “It’s Saturday. Take the rest of the weekend and _talk_ to him. Apologize or let him apologize to you, just _fix_ your stupid friendship so we can all get some work done on Monday.”

With that, she turned and left my office. I collapsed into my chair and dropped my head on my desk, cursing inwardly. _She’s right._

And so it was that two hours later, when I looked up from my paperwork and glimpsed House standing on the balcony between our offices, I sighed and went out to stand next to him. We didn’t look at each other. It was early afternoon and a thick bank of clouds had cast the hospital in pale shadow, but farther out I could see large pools of sunshine dotting the city and the hospital grounds. It was beautiful and the weather was only slightly chilly.

“You look like crap.” _How are you?_

“So I’ve heard. I haven’t slept the past couple of days. What’s your excuse?” _I’m fine. Tired, worried about you. How are you?_

“Leg’s been actin’ up. Makes me nauseous.” _Not good. Haven’t slept, haven’t eaten._

“Vicodin help any?” _Can I help?_

“No.” _Yes._

“How about take-out, beer, and a crappy movie?” _I’m here for you, just like always. Let’s fix this._

“Just what the doctor ordered.” _Yes. God, yes._

We left the hospital. House was right about one thing, I reflected as I drove us in silence to House’s apartment. We were both seriously screwed up.

* * *

I saw House for the first time when I went for a morning run on the track field of my university. I was a sporadic exerciser, squeezing in runs or weights between classes or whenever I found the time, but ever since high school I had made it a point to exercise at least an hour three days a week. Restless and unable to sleep over worrying about my impending dissertation, I had rolled out of bed at 5:30 in the morning and forced myself to go for a run.

The campus was shadowed and cool, refreshingly empty at the early hour, and I was surprised to find another runner on the track when I arrived. I watched him surreptitiously from the corner of my eyes as I knelt to tighten my shoelaces and stretch lightly. Judging by the sweat that soaked the collar and pits of his grey t-shirt, he had been out there for a while already. His form was nearly perfect, I noticed with faint admiration; his legs were long and powerful as a greyhound’s and his tall body was lean and obviously fit. I was of average height and slim build and I had never really lost some of that boyish softness from my youth, much to my chagrin. My slight enviousness was abruptly forgotten as his effortless lope brought him closer to me and I stood up, his intense electric blue eyes catching mine and inadvertently stopping my thoughts. I had never seen eyes so blue.

It was the eyes that stuck with me. Even years later, when I glimpsed a pair of especially bright blue eyes, my mind would flash to that runner for a split second and it wasn’t until I attended a medical conference fifteen years ago, fresh out of med school, that I saw those eyes again. Older, more jaded, and mocking, but unmistakable. Of course, I had never told House (the verbal humiliation that would follow would last for years), but it was one of the reasons why I was willing to stick around with House long enough for us to become acquaintances.

From there, our relationship had quickly developed to friendship (though to the average person our “friendship” was more a study in an addiction to humiliation and punishment) and had only grown deeper and closer with time until it had reached a point where I had woken up one day and had realized that I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if House was not there. Our friendship had lasted longer than any other relationship we had tried to form and the reasons why had long since passed into the realm of “not worth thinking about”.

So when Cuddy and House’s team gave us strange looks on Monday when we returned to work as if nothing had ever happened, I had to remind myself that normal people did not repair a shaky relationship within the space of an hour with food and crappy movies. Sometimes I wished they did; I might still be married to my first wife.

Despite how things might have looked on the surface, however, House was still trying to work through what had happened to him. He refused to speak about his behavior on Thursday and made it a point never to come within arm’s length of me. Not like we touched often before, but we had shared a comfortable familiarity that we didn’t share with others and I was distinctly aware of its absence. I was reluctant to think about that night also—House’s words and actions had hit far too close to home and I was still trying to sort out my feelings.

“You know, Kutner mentioned something the other day,” I said hesitantly on Monday night in between commercials.

“Damn, I thought told him not to mention the reefer I gave him at work,” House said idly, sipping from his beer.

“He said that you came into work three weeks ago with a black eye.”

“Now I _know_ I told him not to mention that.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“Didn’t want you to get depressed after learning that sometimes I go out and drink without you. Don’t cry, Jimmy.”

“So… It couldn’t have been because you didn’t want me to gloat when I found out that without me as your keeper/social buffer, everyone who wants to punch you out actually does it.” I felt smug and I let my voice show it.

“Your Jewish God will punish you for your hubris, Wilson,” House warned. “Strangely enough, my world doesn’t revolve around you—the guy was an idiotic ass and didn’t appreciate it being pointed out, that’s all.”

“Case in point.”

“I’m just out of practice. With you hanging over my shoulder every minute for the past fifteen years, I’d forgotten how to handle a proper bar fight. If I’d had another five minutes, the guy would’ve been eating out of my hand.”

I shook my head with a smile. “I missed you, too, House.”

“I didn’t say that,” House protested, looking uncomfortable. “God, Jimmy, if you start crying—”

“I’ll be sure to leave the room to preserve your sensitive ideals,” I concluded.

“At last! A man after my own heart; no one else understands me half as well as you do.”

“No one else is masochistic enough to want to.” I joked, knowing full well that the underlying conversation we were having was as close to an apology or declaration of affection that I would get from him.

A late spring storm had rolled in over the past two days, looming warningly over New Jersey like a barroom bouncer before finally breaking that night. Safely ensconced in House’s warm, comfortable couch, we listened to the wind howl and rage against the windows, the rain lashing at the building with equal ferocity. House went to bed early that night; rain and cold of any kind wreaked havoc on his leg until he could barely limp to a flat surface, swallow several pills, and fall into a drug-induced coma. I stretched myself out on the couch not long after, resigned to another restless night filled with memories of House and the events of last Thursday. Frankly, I was surprised that I was still conscious during work considering the grueling run of consistent sleep deprivation over the last few weeks.

I deserved an award.

“Ugh…”

I blinked groggily into the dim light of the living room from the cocoon of blankets I had wrapped around myself in the night. The alarm on my new phone was going off, shrilling a tinny version of “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough”, which I hadn’t figured out how to change yet. 7:30 in the morning. So much for that award. _I feel like crap…_

A glance to the window showed that the rain was still falling heavily and I shivered under the blankets as a chill took me over. I had to get up; I had to be at work in an hour and a half. Strangely, I didn’t feel much like leaving House’s lumpy old couch at the moment, so I burrowed under the covers and let the minutes pass in a blank haze. Forty minutes later, I dragged myself reluctantly from the makeshift bed and into the bathroom. I moved through my morning routine as if in a dream, running wet fingers through my hair instead of bothering with a shower and abandoning the hair dryer completely. The rain would just undo all of my work anyway.

After making myself presentable—choosing from the wide variety of clothing that had somehow made their way into House’s closets and dressers over the years—I padded blearily into the kitchen, shaking my head sharply in an attempt to wake myself up. It didn’t work very well. I managed to down a cup of coffee, but when I opened the fridge to contemplate my options for breakfast my stomach roiled at the thought of eating and I hastily abandoned that idea. My head ached. I choked down a couple of Ibuprofen with the last of my coffee and headed out the door, unable to avoid work any longer.

House, the lucky cripple, had the day off. As I trudged through the day, greeting patients and writing on charts, I kept thinking about going back to my apartment, sipping at a large mug of hot cocoa to ward off the chill of the rain, and passing out on my bed for the weekend. It was becoming more and more appealing as the day wore on. I begged off on an “offer-that-was-not-a-date” for a cup of coffee after work from a new nurse in Pediatrics and finally escaped at five o’clock on the dot. Rain was still sprinkling down from the dark sky and I hunched my shoulders miserably as I searched for my car in the parking lot.

Later, I would attribute my misstep to temporary light-headedness; because there was no way that I would have missed the gaping pool of murky rainwater if I had been in the right mind. As it was, I was completely surprised when my left foot sank into a puddle of ice-cold water and I stumbled, my ankle twisting with a sharp pain that had me grunting when my knees hit the asphalt. With my left hand occupied with my briefcase, I reached out with my right hand to stop me from face planting and ended up scraping my palm liberally as well. I tried to scramble up as quickly as possible, looking around to see if anyone had seen me try to kiss the pavement, but thankfully no one was there.

I shivered as I limped to my car, getting in and turning the heater up to full blast. My hand and knees and ankle and head throbbed in unison, shouting at me like an angry mob and I didn’t dare roll up my soaked trousers to see the damage. I was getting too old to take falls like that very well.

Finally, I felt warm and recovered enough to drive home. I wasted no time in dropping my briefcase on the couch and shedding my sodden clothes on the way to my bedroom, abandoning my usual neatness. I grabbed some sweats and an undershirt before backtracking into the bathroom to clean up my wounds. I dropped my trousers and boxers to my ankles, hissing as the cool air hit my battered skin, and finally inspected the damage. My knees were scraped and would sport some nasty bruises but didn’t need any bandaging, but I wrapped a clean bandage around my right hand after cleaning everything with peroxide. I sat on the toilet and carefully prodded my twisted ankle with a wince, determining that it wasn’t broken or even sprained. A day or two off it would be all I needed.

After wrapping my ankle with an ACE bandage, I pulled on my sweats and shirt without bothering to replace my boxers and padded into the kitchen, dialing Cuddy to let her know that I would be taking a couple sick days. I hung up after I got her approval and stood for a moment rubbing my thumb over the smooth casing of the phone. _I should call House,_ I thought with a sigh. If I didn’t he would whine at me for not telling him that I wouldn’t be at work tomorrow so he could’ve thought up a good excuse not to go either. My lips twitched. House really was like a child sometimes.

I dialed his number. As I waited for him to pick up, I reached up for the cupboard holding my cups but just as I reached behind the tall glasses for my special cocoa mug, a wave of dizziness made me falter. I dropped the phone and my hand knocked a glass from the cupboard where it tumbled to the floor and shattered. I groaned quietly, holding my head and leaning hard against the counter to steady myself. After what felt like an eternity, the world righted itself again and I let out a slow breath, deciding to forgo the cocoa for now. I grabbed a bowl in case I felt nauseous and stepped back, abruptly remembering the broken glass when pain lanced through the bottom of my foot.

I cursed loudly and hop-stepped back to my bedroom. The vertigo was back worse than before and I wobbled precariously at the edge of the bed before I collapsed on it. I clutched the sheets as the room spun wildly and closed my eyes tightly. It just made the sensation worse and when the darkness seemed to envelop my senses I gave into it gratefully. I passed out.

I woke blearily to long, cool fingers against my face. The room seemed to swing sharply into focus and I shut my eyes quickly. I groaned and reflexively tightened my grip on the comforter, leaning into the pleasant touch. The fingers moved to run through my hair affectionately, tugging on my forelock sharply once.

“Jimmy. Wake up.” The voice was a pleasantly deep baritone, intimately familiar, and it stirred a plethora of complicated feelings within me. I furrowed my brow when the hand was removed and I reluctantly opened my eyes, struggling to focus. “C’mon, Jimmy, look at me.” Finally, I managed to obey. Those deep blue eyes were watching me intently with the clinical detachment of a surgeon, but concern was revealed in the slight crease between his eyes.

“House?” I asked groggily. I struggled to sit up but he placed a firm hand on my shoulder, holding me down.

“No, it’s John Travolta. Hang on a second; I don’t want you barfing all over me.”

“’m not nauseous,” I protested. He ignored me. “What’re you doin’ here anyway?”

“You don’t remember calling me?” He grabbed a penlight from the open First Aid kit that he had apparently found in the bathroom and shined it in myeyes. I groaned and tried to bat it away, but my muscles were like wet noodles and my reflexes were shot. I remained still as he checked the rest of my vitals.

“I was callin’ you, but I don’t think I actually talked to you,” I mumbled, tired of the conversation already. I just wanted to go back to sleep. “I think I’m sick.”

“No, really? I wouldn’t’ve guessed—it’s not like I’m a doctor or anything,” House replied sarcastically. I just closed my eyes, hoping he would go away if I ignored him.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me yet. I’ve still gotta do doctor stuff to you,” House said, poking me in the arm.

“That sounds… wrong.” My verbal acuity was definitely not up to dueling with House right now.

“Mhmm, but oh, so hot. We’ll explore that more when you’re not in danger of vomiting all over. Now, how long have you felt ‘sick’?”

“This morning. Almost got an award,” I added sadly. There was a pause.

“Right. How long since you’ve had a full night’s sleep?”

“Long, long time,” I mumbled, my attention waning quickly. Words were tumbling out now and I wasn’t alert enough to screen them. This happened every time I got sick, as well as House knew. I didn’t get sick very often but when I did House somehow managed to ask me several embarrassing, personal questions even when I tried to avoid him.

“When, Jimmy? You’re about as helpful as Kutner right now.”

“Ooh, that’s a bad thing.” I said knowingly. “Couldn’t sleep in Minnesota. Missed you. Then the gay guys made me horny.” House’s eyebrows looked like they were trying to climb off his face and a smirk was starting to tug at his mouth.

“Interesting…”

I frowned. “I don’t think I should’ve said that. Strike it from the record, your Honor!” I giggled to myself and a rare grin spread across House’s face, his eyes taking on a familiar glint.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Jimmy.”

“I shouldn’t think about stuff like that. I’m not gay.” I said insistently. “Not bisexual either. Never touched another guy. Thought about it. Wondered…”

“Until I attacked you.” House stated, almost harshly. He wasn’t smiling anymore and that made me sad. I shook my head, frowning.

“Didn’t. You’re my best friend. I _was_ thinking like you said. I’m just… not ready.” There was a long silence in which my mind drifted and I closed my eyes, relaxing into my sheets as tiredness swept over me. A hand touched my hair softly.

“I’m sorry, Jimmy.” House’s voice was quiet, rough. I could count the number of times that House had said those words on my fingers and my heart swelled at the obvious sincerity in them now. I reached up and fumbled for his hand, holding it to my cheek and pressing my lips to the palm.

“Love you, Greg,” I breathed. I slept.

Pain woke me next. I whimpered and tried to pull my foot back reflexively, but it was held in a firm but gentle grip. I peeled open my eyes, squinting down at the foot of the bed where House was quickly and efficiently applying peroxide to the bottom of my right foot.

“Oh stop whining, you baby,” House snarked. “My five-year-old patient handles pain better than you. And she’s a girl.”

“That hurts, you bastard.” I groaned, clutching the covers tighter as he wound some bandages around the ball and heel of my foot.

“Cry me a river. It’s not my fault you’re so nitpicky that you needed matching bandages on both feet. Now you just need one on your left hand and you’ll have the full set. You want to tell me what happened?”

“Fell. Twisted my ankle.” I mumbled, already falling back asleep now that he had set my foot down and covered my legs with a blanket again.

“Don’t fall asleep yet, Van Winkle. You’ve got a fever and you’re dehydrated. Take these meds and eat the soup and you can go back to La La Land.”

“Yes, mommy.” I giggled, finding it terribly funny to turn House’s oft-used phrase back on him. House just rolled his eyes, looking annoyed.

“God, why the hell am _I_ always stuck with you while you’re sick? You always turn into a child.”

“House. House, I think I’m kind of del-delar-irious. Delirious.”

“Duh.”

“…I gotta pee.”

“Perfect.”

With much wincing and cursing, House helped me to the bathroom and stood outside while I did my business. I frowned when I got back to the bedroom and saw the state of the bed.

“Oh no, I got blood on the comforter,” I complained. “It was mine and Amber’s…” I crawled back into the bed anyway, too drained to care, and I leaned back against the headboard. House handed me a bowl of chicken noodle soup with a huff.

“Good. Cutthroat Bitch doesn’t have any use for it and it’s time for you to get over her. It wasn’t like she was Mrs. James Wilson the Fourth or anything; you made a vow after Julie kicked you out, remember?”

“Amber was different,” I sighed, sipping at the soup gingerly. “Even you said so. She was… more like you. And I liked that. I liked it a lot.” House’s face was expressionless, his eyes distant and kind of sad.

“Yeah, I know. Idiot.”

“It was like you said; I was sleeping with you,” I rambled, not noticing when House stiffened. “Makes sense now; you’re my best friend and you’re always there for me. I’ve been with you for so long… makes sense I would want the same qualities in a lover that you have.” I laughed suddenly. “Maybe I’m ‘House-sexual’.”

Unsurprisingly, the joke fell flat. I frowned with a sheepish blush. “I don’t think I should’ve said that.”

There was silence as I ate half of the soup before giving it back. I obediently took the pills House handed me with a glass of water and laid back down to sleep. The darkness quickly came over me and I barely felt the hand run through my hair again.

“You’re an idiot.”

* * *

I quickly lost track of time. I woke to eat, take medicine, get my bandages changed, and go to the bathroom. The sickness raged through me, my sleep-deprived and stressed immune system not up to the task of fighting off the bug, and I was thoroughly miserable for what felt like days. I coughed, vomited, and burned with fever even though I felt wracked with chills. I had vivid dreams and thoughts that had me rambling incoherently or waking up in a start with a cry of fear. And through it all, House was at my side, as snarky and sarcastic as ever, but I couldn't help but notice that his hands were always gentle.

When the fever, the last of my symptoms, broke the room was dark. I laid in bed for a while, mentally taking account of my body. I felt weak but finally comfortable except for a full bladder. I was hungry. The bedside clock read 9:58 and I could hear rain pattering gently against the darkened windows. I turned my head—dislodging a damp, skin-warmed cloth House had evidently placed on my forehead—and saw my best friend stretched out uncomfortably on the floor with blankets and a pillow propped under his leg. I knew the chair would have been impossible for him to stay in for too long, but he had stayed as close to my bedside as possible.

It probably would have shocked anyone who had ever met or heard of House to know that he had personally taken care of another human being for this long, even if it was his best friend. Even Cuddy, who had known House longer than I had, would have been surprised that House had bothered to show actual human care and emotion for someone whose condition was “diagnostically boring”. And House would be the last person to let anyone in on the fact.

I smiled fondly as House snored from the floor and climbed out of bed carefully, making the least amount of noise possible. House was not a light sleeper but sometimes the oddest things could wake him up, especially when his insomnia allowed him to sleep through the night. I closed the bedroom door behind me and crept into the bathroom, using the toilet and staring at my reflection in the mirror as I washed my hands. I looked like crap. I was still slightly pale and there were dark rings under my eyes. I grimaced when I saw that my normally carefully-coiffed hair was matted and greasy.

I glanced at the shower longingly and debated my options. Take a quick shower and risk a scathing rant from House or lie in my own unwashed filth for another night. It really wasn’t a contest. I shed my sweaty undershirt and sweats before stepping carefully into the shower. The cool water felt like heaven on my skin and I quickly shampooed and conditioned my hair before soaping up my body thoroughly, careful to avoid scraping against my healing wounds. Then I simply stood beneath the spray, supporting my weight on my hands placed against the tile, and let it beat a comforting tattoo against my back.

I was only aware that anyone had entered the room when the shower curtain was yanked back, the rattling of the metal ties against the shower rod reverberating in the small room. I jerked my head out from under the spray and blinked hard.

“H-House? What the hell?” I spluttered, shutting off the shower and grabbing the towel he was holding out to me.

“If you’re stupid enough to get yourself sick again, I’m not going to suffer for it,” was all he said. I rolled my eyes and toweled myself off quickly, wrapping the towel around my waist afterwards. House leaned back against the counter and watched impassively, making no move to be discreet.

“Oh, come on,” I said, walking back into my bedroom and slipping some more sweats on underneath the towel. “I finally feel human again; you can’t fault me for wanting to clean up a bit.”

“Nah, you stunk anyway **.”**

“Thanks.”

I pulled on another undershirt and put my hands on my hips, surveying the state of my room. It smelled of sickness and closed in, unwashed bodies and I wrinkled my nose.

“It’s a mess in here.” I grimaced, bending down to pick up the dirty clothes strewn on the floor and toss them into a laundry basket. Then I opened a window wide and tore the sheets off the bed. “Damn it, I got blood on the comforter. It was mine and Amber’s…”

“You already said that. And what are you doing?” House said, leaning against the door jamb and watching me while rubbing his leg absently.

“I’m cleaning up; there’s no way I can sleep on these sheets another night. When did I say that?” I stuffed the sheets in with the dirty clothes and tossed the comforter on the floor next to it—it was time to get rid of it anyway.

“You’re certified OCD, you know that? You’ve been sick for two days and you deep clean the second you recover. And you said that two days ago. You don’t remember?”

“You of all people know how I get when I’m sick. I can’t tell the difference between reality, delusions, or dreams half the time. I’m hoping the memory of you playing football in a pink tutu a la Jim Carrey was a dream.”

“Damn, I could’ve sworn you were asleep for that. Ace Ventura is my hero.”

I chuckled and made my way slowly out of the room, wincing as the cuts on the bottom of my foot stretched. “I’m starving,” I announced. “You want something?”

“Some sleep would be nice,” House grumbled. He grunted as he sat at the table in the kitchen and leaned back, watching me shuffle around the kitchen like an invalid. I noticed that he was rubbing his leg almost constantly and felt a pang of guilt mixed with surprised affection. I looked around discreetly, noting the signs of House's inhabitation of my apartment—the TV remote tossed carelessly on the couch, the dirty dishes in my sink, the rummaged contents of my cupboards and fridge, the distinctive red backpack stuffed with House's clothes and various items, and the two Vicodin vials within easy reach on the coffee table.

House had always been rather lazy when it came to cleanliness but I knew that the messiness I saw now and at his apartment was more out of necessity rather than simply bachelor life. After the infarction, easy access had become more important than tidiness and he had soon realized that it pained him to stand at the sink to do dishes for too long or to move around smaller areas cluttered with furniture. It was another concession he had had to make for his disability and it was another reason that he let me do most of the cooking and cleaning for him now. I, of course, made it a point to complain about it each time, letting him maintain the illusion that his “laziness” was voluntary.

I set a bowl of tomato soup in front of him and a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches between us as I sat at the table and we began eating in a comfortable silence. It was nearly 11:00 at night and even though I felt weak, I wasn't tired. House, I noticed, looked exhausted. I was reminded again that he had chosen to leave work and home to take care of me for two days.

“What did you say to Cuddy to get her to let you take time off work?” I asked finally.

“I told her you had finally come to your senses and we were flying off to California to get married. Nice way to ruin our honeymoon, by the way,” he quipped. I smothered a snicker.

“If Cuddy thought that getting married would make you any easier to deal with, she'd pay for the wedding herself.”

“Even if it was to you? She has the hots for both of us, you know; imagine how disappointed she'd be to lose us to each other!” He widened his eyes dramatically in a moue of sadness. I rolled my eyes, feeling a little uneasy at the direction the conversation was taking.

“I'm sure she'd get over it. Or fire you,” I shrugged dismissively. “What did you really say?”

House snorted scornfully, taking a rather vicious bit out of his sandwich. “I barely had to say anything. You're her prized, Wonder Boy oncologist after all and everyone knows you've been single and lonely ever since Amber died. I had just started outlining my case before she was booting me out the door to take care of you. I've been on 24-hour sick-Jimmy watch ever since.”

I frowned. “Wait, how did you know I was sick? I remember calling to tell Cuddy, but I never talked to you.”

“We've had this conversation already.” House rolled his eyes.

“Humor me.”

“You called me and I'm guessing your dizziness made you knock a glass onto the floor and drop your phone. The nice, _new_ phone _I_ had gotten you,” he added pointedly. “I came over, found the broken glass, and followed the pretty red footprints until I found you on your bed. Your constant worrying and sleep deprivation made you susceptible to the flu and I was stuck taking care of you. End of story.” He sounded bored.

“I appreciate it, you know.”

He shifted in his seat, not meeting my eyes. “You can show it by getting us off work tomorrow. We could manage it easy; I could catch your flu and you could stay to finish recovering and take care of me.”

“I'm not going to lie to get us off work,” I protested. “I've missed too much work already. My patients...”

“Are just as bald and dying as usual. You missing a couple of days won't make what's left of their lives any less miserable.”

“No, but me being there to support them will,” I countered, my combative streak stirring to life as it did whenever my patients or profession were attacked. House watched me for a long moment without replying before abruptly yielding, much to my surprise.

“I'm tired. Good night.”

“W-wait,” I said hurriedly, seeing that he was headed for the couch. “Come on, you take the bed tonight. That couch is crap and you can't sleep on the floor again.” I left our dishes on the table for tomorrow and went to the hall closet, extracting clean linens to put on my bed. House remained silent, leaning against the doorjamb again while he watched me remake the bed. By the time I laid a thick quilt over the top in place of the bloodied comforter, I was feeling quite tired again and I resisted the urge to just collapse on the bed and sleep; instead, I wearily moved to close the window since the room had aired out. House seemed to notice.

“Stay with me.” His voice was quiet but calm and steady, as if suggesting what to eat for breakfast. I froze from my place in front of the window, the cold breeze blowing through my thin undershirt and the light rain sounding suddenly loud in the silence. Finally, I pushed the window closed with deliberately slow movements.

“House... I don't—”

“I'm not propositioning you,” he interrupted, his voice hard and emotionless. “I promise not to maul you in your sleep or whisper naughty things in your ear or whatever's going through your mind. We're both tired. Your couch sucks. Let's just sleep.”

I hesitated for a long moment, debating. I thought of how he had grabbed me around the throat and slammed me against the door, his hot breath against my neck and his aroused body pressed close to my back, his hands grasping, confident, possessive. I thought of my body's unmistakable reaction. But his expression now was blank and neutral, his eyes tired and resigned rather than dark with lust and need. And whispered words hovered at the edge of my memory, dancing the fine edge between dream and reality. _I'm sorry, Jimmy..._

“Trust me.”

And that decided it.

“Okay,” I said, flushing when my voice broke.

House grinned crookedly and limped to the side of the bed closest to the door, promptly leaning his cane against the wall and getting under the covers. I fidgeted in place for a moment and shuffled to turn the light off before making my way slowly to the other side of the bed in the darkness. I climbed in and curled up in the fetal position with my head ducked under the covers—my usual method getting warm when I was alone in bed—with my back facing House. The bed was pretty big and there was no real reason for us to touch if we kept to our side of the bed, but I still found my senses hyper-aware of every movement and every sound that my impromptu bedfellow made. My nerves drew tight as I listened to him breathe in the dark, mere inches away.

As the minutes passed, however, and my senses grew accustomed to the darkness and to the fact that there was another person—a _male_ person—in my bed, I became concerned. House was moving restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position for his leg, and his short, pained intakes of breath told me that it wasn't working. I knew that House often had trouble sleeping—if not because of his intermittent insomnia then because of his pain—and I had seen him pass out countless times in the effort to drown out his mind or his leg with alcohol and Vicodin. And since he had most likely gone through what little alcohol I kept in my apartment...

I slid out of bed and padded to the living room. Scooping up a vial of Vicodin from the coffee table, I popped it open and palmed two before returning to the bedroom. I handed him the two pills first and the rest to put on the nightstand after he had swallowed his dose. Wordlessly, I slipped back into bed, this time facing my best friend. We watched each other through the darkness, understanding and affection passing between us as easily and silently as it ever had. House reached out and brushed his fingertips against my hair briefly—the only sign of thanks I ever expected to receive from him—before he stretched out on his back and closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath as the pain eased.

I soon passed into sleep, reassured by the sound of his steady deep breathing.

I was convinced that few feelings in the world could compare to the feeling of waking up in bed with another person. Unless, of course, that person is as cold and hard as stone and divorce is looming in your future. But luckily that hadn't happened in a while. I shifted closer to my human pillow, tightening my arm around their waist and burying my face into the crook of their neck. I let out a sigh that trailed into a soft groan as I rubbed my morning erection against their hip lazily. I nuzzled their neck and nipped it lightly, lapping the wound to soothe it afterward. I reveled in the quick intake of breath that followed and pressed my hips closer suggestively, hoping for some relief. It had been so long...

“Are you so used to having someone in your bed that you don't even question who it is anymore? Damn, Jimmy, I'm impressed. All your exes must be pissed that they were nothing but a warm body to fuck.”

I froze. The lazy sleepiness that had clouded my mind evaporated like snow in the desert and I instantly noticed the differences that should have been apparent the moment I woke up; where my normal partners were soft and curvy, this body was hard and flat. Stubble rasped against my jaw and the neck I had burrowed into smelled of musk and leather and cologne and an undertone of eucalyptus. I had wrapped my left leg around his and my knee was pressed against his own considerable erection. And, most of all, his voice was unmistakably, horrifically House's.

My face felt like it was attempting to prove spontaneous human combustion. I pulled away from House slowly, disentangling my limbs from his carefully and ignoring how cold I felt as I moved back to my side of the bed. I rolled onto my back and covered my eyes with my arm, afraid to face that burning intense gaze I could feel on me.

“Oh my _God_ ,” I muttered, mortified. “I'm so sorry. I've been alone for so long, I should've realized...”

“That the thing drilling a hole in your leg was most definitely _not_ the Fleshlight you fell asleep with last night? Yeah, happens to me all the time.”

I had to laugh at that; it was such a typical House response. “A Fleshlight? A little full of yourself, are you? You're not _that_ big.”

“But I _am_ big. Maybe not Fleshlight big, but definitely the size of a small child's arm. Admit it.”

“..That is _so_ wrong.” I said with a chuckle, finally removing my arm to look over at him. House had an arm tucked behind his head and the other draped across his stomach, a smirk across his lips and a familiar sparkle in his eye. He was relaxed and amused—aroused, yes, I could still see under the blankets—but he wasn't pushing it.

“Not as wrong as you humping my leg in your sleep. Oh, but I forgot; we have different definitions of the word 'wrong'.” He leered. I punched him in the arm, hard.

“Oh shut up! God you're annoying in the morning,” I muttered, sliding out of bed and ignoring my lingering erection in favor of retreating to the bathroom.

“And horny!” House shouted after me and I snapped the door shut, shaking my head.

“Join the club,” I muttered.

* * *

As the weeks passed, I was relieved to see that things seemed to go back to normal. Just as I had predicted to Cuddy, a few days at home and some new cases and House was back to his annoying, recalcitrant self. His wounds had long since healed and his arrogant genius restored; he no longer sought to regain his control, which both relieved and confused me since something had distracted him from his insecurity and I didn't know what it was.

When he invaded my office to bug me for lunch—cutting short an important follow-up meeting with a patient—my curiosity was starting to outweigh my blind acceptance. We made our way to the cafeteria and stood in line.

“House, you've got to stop doing that. Doors are closed for a reason, you know, and rational human beings recognize that it is polite to knock before barging into someone's office.” My lectures were completely useless, I knew, but I couldn't help myself and House knew it.

“Afraid I might interrupt something? Another pity lay with one your patients?” House waggled his eyebrows outrageously and I gave him a Look. House made a face at the food beneath the sneeze guard. “God, these chicken fried steaks look like deep-fried vomit. Get the Rueben.”

I obeyed. The chicken really did look like vomit, now that he mentioned it. House continued as I reached for my wallet at the register. “Anyway, you were giving the guy good news; he wouldn't've cared if I threw you down on the floor and started sucking your—”

“House!” I hissed, slapping his hand hard as he reached for the chips. “Sorry.” I added hurriedly to the lady behind the counter who was sizing us both up interestedly. By now she was well-used to House's antics.

“Ooh, she thought we were hot together. I'll bet she's going to go home tonight and rub one out to Carter/Luka slash on the ER forums.” I cringed and gave House a disgusted look as we sat at our usual table near the window.

“Ugh, seriously, House? That's low, even for you. People don't actually do stuff like that—only a pervert like you would think of it.” House gave me a pitying look, raising his eyebrows in a knowing way. I just shook my head and shoved the tray closer to him. I wasn't hungry anymore. “Anyway, how did you know I was giving him good news?”

He rolled his eyes. “You were smiling and he wasn't crying. And you don't go to lunch with me on days you have to give bad news to your patients.” I blinked. Was I really that predictable? “Yes, you are.” House said. God, I could swear he could read my mind sometimes. “No I can't, your face is—”

“—like an open book, I know,” I finished. He smirked and I stole the rest of his chips in retaliation. We finished up lunch talking about our latest cases and making fun of the people outside the window or his team or anyone else we could think of. As we left the cafeteria, House was bemoaning his boredom with his latest patient, which had turned out to be a simple case of pneumonia, but I couldn't help but notice that House still had the familiar glint in his eye that had been there for weeks now. It told me he was in a good mood and his intricate mind was whirring and clanking at some delightful and complicated problem.

“Yes, human suffering and pain is always such a drag,” I said sarcastically. I gave him a curious look as we stopped to wait for the elevator. Knowing I would probably regret it, I finally asked the question that had been eating at me. “What are you up to? You've been in a good mood for weeks and you're acting like you've found a new puzzle.”

“Maybe I have found a new puzzle.” He gave me a smug grin. The elevator opened and we crowded inside.

“Well?” I coaxed when he didn't continue. “What is it?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

“Yes, that is generally the purpose of a raised inflection at the end of a sentence, indicating a question.” The elevator opened onto our floor.

“I'm thinking of new and interesting ways to make fun of that pooch you're lovingly cultivating.” House poked me in the stomach with his cane and I covered the spot protectively.

“I do _not_ have a pooch,” I protested indignantly. House pushed his way into his office, throwing a suggestion over his shoulder.

“You should name it Fido.”

I frowned and stomped back into my office. I sat at my desk and furiously sorted papers for completion. After a few long minutes, my hand unconsciously drifted down to my stomach. It _did_ seem a little soft, I noticed worriedly, and some of my pants had been feeling tight around my hips. Too many long nights on House's couch with beer and take-out. I absently wondered why House never seemed to suffer any consequences from it. _Damn you, House._

I started running regularly again that night.

* * *

(Two weeks later)

“Lay back and lift up your shirt for me.”

“W-what?”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “You've told me that you've been having abdominal pain; I'd like to examine you to determine what's wrong,” I explained patiently. This had to be one of the densest clinic patients I had ever had and he was starting to get on my nerves.

“But... like, the pain's in the back area. Not, like, in my _back_ -back, like my spine or my ass or whatever, just, like...” he motioned toward his kidneys. “Is that where my appendix is? I heard those things can, like, _seriously_ screw you up like this.” _Somewhere out there, there is a high school anatomy teacher who is crying helplessly,_ I thought, almost awed. _And she doesn’t know why_.

“Ah. Well, that would have been helpful to know,” I muttered under my breath, flipping through twenty-eight year old Gavin Pierce's chart before turning my attention back to him. “I don't think you have to worry. If you had appendicitis, then you would most likely be in a lot more pain. And besides, your appendix is in your frontal abdominal area. Take your shirt off, please.”

Gavin Pierce was nicely muscled, I noted absently as I asked him several more questions and carefully palpated his kidney area. His skin was evenly tanned and clear of unsightly hair or acne and it was warm and soft under my fingers. I leaned closer to ask him about his fluid intake and noticed he wore cologne.

_House's smells better._

The thought popped into my head like one of those inexplicable ACME anvils on a Wile E. Coyote cartoon and it stunned me about as much. I quickly beat it down and put some distance between me and the patient by returning to his chart. I perused it intently without actually reading it while I made sure that the memory of waking up next to House was tightly locked away in a place not even closely related to clinic patients or the hospital.

“Is... is it bad?” Gavin Pierce's voice drew me from my thoughts and I looked up from making some notes in surprise. I had been silent for too long; the patient looked worried. I mentally cursed myself for getting caught up in useless thoughts and focused fully on the anxious man with a reassuring smile.

“Oh, I don't think so. It appears as though you have some small kidney stones; they're painful and uncomfortable, but normally not dangerous and very treatable. Just in case, I'm going to ask for a consult with our nephrologist to confirm—”

As if summoned by my words, the door burst open and House limped into the exam room. “Wilson! Need a consult,” he said carelessly, ignoring the patient on the table. _Speak of the devil._

“Actually, House, I was just going to call _you_ for a consult,” I replied, motioning to Gavin. House blinked as if just registering the other man's presence.

“Hey, man,” Gavin said.

“Damn. You mean your consult actually involves a patient?”

“That's usually what a consult in a hospital entails, yes.”

“Mine would've been funner,” House mumbled but took the file and glanced over it. Then he tossed it on the table and looked over the patient with his intense, evaluating gaze. Gavin shifted nervously. I sympathized. When House turned his full attention onto you, the weight of his knowing eyes observing every minute detail of your being stripped you naked and made you feel like a particularly curious bug even if he only stared for three seconds.

House reached out with his cane and poked the guy in the left kidney. Gavin cried out in pain and recoiled, nearly falling off the examination table.

“Yup, he's got kidney stones. Don't know why you needed me, Wilson.”

“Wait, how'd you know I thought—”

“Oh, come on. Nausea, pain and sensitivity in the kidneys, pressure build-up, difficulty urinating, decreased intake of water; it's as plain as the thong on Cuddy's ass. I didn't even have to touch the kid—how long were you in here groping him? Granted, he's a nice piece of a—”

“House!” I snapped. House just smirked. Gavin was looking between us cluelessly.

“Geez, keep your panties on, Wilson. You,” he pointed his cane at the patient, who jerked back with a wary eye on the rubber tip. “Lay off the weed, drink lots of water, and wait for your little fireman to piss lumps of calcified urine. You,” he stabbed the cane at me but I didn't flinch. “Come with me.”

He limped out as suddenly as he had come in. I rummaged in a drawer and handed Gavin a pamphlet on kidney stones and a prescription for pain medication.

“Sorry about that. Just hand the file to the nurse at the counter as you leave,” I said hurriedly and followed after House, leaving Gavin Pierce shirtless on the table clutching a rumpled pamphlet and his own file. House had been stopped at the nurse's station by Cuddy and I could see House's fellows approaching from the elevators.

“House, you've been hiding out in the exam rooms again?” Cuddy asked, exasperated.

“Hey, Wilson dragged me away from important doctor business for a consult,” House said defensively. He glanced at me and lowered his voice to a loud whisper that was obviously meant to carry. “Personally, I think he's slipping. It was _kidney stones_.”

“And _you're_ a nephrologist,” I pointed out, planting my hands on my hips. “I was just making sure.”

“House, our patient—” Foreman tried to interrupt, but was promptly ignored.

“Yeah, you just wanted to _make sure_ the guy's skin was really as soft as it looked,” House said with a snort.

He leaned around me, trying to reach the jar of suckers on the edge of the nurse's station, but I blocked him. We shared a close, irritated look only inches away from each other and House tried to reach to the other side. Feeling particularly stubborn, I blocked him again with a smirk. He feigned a lunge to the side that I didn't fall for and dodged around me. I spun to the right and blocked him again, easily reading his movements.

Our eyes locked and the challenge was laid out, our co-workers—subordinates and supervisors alike—forgotten. He tried reaching under and over my shoulder and I shrugged him off easily, pushing him back onto his bad leg. He limped back and growled at me, which I ignored. Then a smirk curled his lip and he brought his cane into play, stabbing it at me like a fencing foil. I dodged it with an ease that scared even me and blocked his next attack with a hastily-grabbed clipboard. He lunged again and I dodged to the side, slamming the clipboard down on his cane and trapping it on top of the counter of the nurse's station. We stopped and evaluated each other.

“You've been attacking me with that thing ever since your infarction,” I said smugly. “D'you really think I haven't learned anything after all these years?” I stepped aside, gesturing to the prized jar of suckers with a gallant half-bow. House retracted his cane and limped forward, his dark, evaluating gaze not moving from my eyes. He stepped close to me, almost pressing me back into the counter as he reached over to snag a couple red suckers and an orange one.

“You haven't seen anything yet,” he growled under his breath. I wasn't completely successful in suppressing the shiver that tracked up my spine at the hot breath against my ear. When he withdrew, he had a smirk on his face and he tucked the orange sucker into the breast pocket of my lab coat. “Your prize, sir knight,” he said in a snide tone, the look his eyes gloating like he had won rather than lost.

The scattered applause from around the clinic brought us back to our surroundings and I blushed brilliantly at Cuddy's expression—it looked like she was trying to decide whether to be amused, disapproving, or flabbergasted. _Oh, God, I just made a fool of myself in front of the entire hospital,_ I thought, horrified. _A cane-fight over a jar of_ suckers? _What are we, five?_

“Every time I get a glimpse of the inner workings of your dysfunctional friendship, I feel the sudden urge to rejoin normal society. Psychiatrists would have a field day with the two of you, honestly,” Cuddy finally said before abruptly turning and returning to her office without another word.

“Cuddy—” I called after her weakly, my hand outstretched in a silent, futile plea. Her door shut behind her decisively and my shoulders slumped.

“That had to be the weirdest—” Foreman began slowly.

“—most disturbing—” Taub interjected.

“— _coolest_ —” Kutner protested with an awed grin.

“—hottest—” Thirteen added, shrugging when everyone paused and gave her a look.

“—interaction I've ever seen between you two.” Foreman finished. “And I've been around long enough to see a lot. Even Wilson's last bachelor party couldn't compare.”

“Now, come on—wait, what happened during my bachelor party?” I protested, but House cut me off.

“Oh, my ignorant ducklings, that was nothing. The relationship I share with Wilson is a deep and complex thing, much like the venous system of our patient.” House paused, appearing to think. “Wait, we _do_ have one of those, right? How is he? Veins shrinking yet?”

“Y-yes, how did you—?” Thirteen began, startled.

“Because _I've_ known the answer since I looked at his file. What's taking you guys so long?” He rolled his eyes at me. “Better not wait up for me tonight, honey; looks like it's going to take these idiots _days_ to figure out what's wrong with this guy.”

My eye twitched. “Not a problem, _dear_ ,” I gritted out. “I'll be sure to lock the door.” I strode quickly back to my office without waiting for his response. I buried myself in my paperwork until well after House had left before locking up and heading out to my car.

As I turned in the direction of House's apartment, I absently took the sucker out of my pocket and slid it into my mouth, savoring the sweet flavor. I wondered how long House had known what my favorite flavor was.

* * *

(Two weeks later)

My shoes pounded against the asphalt in a steady rhythm and my breath puffed in and out in time. I had warmed up and passed the point of feeling the burn and stretch of each stride; now all I felt was the rhythm and the smoothness of movement. The easy extension of leg and arm and back. The smell of freshly-cut grass and the cool stillness of the morning.

I often thought of House while I ran. Of my countless memories of him limping around the halls of the hospital with his cane, of him clutching his leg in pain and frustration, of his habit of tapping his cane on the ground or leaning his forehead on the handle when he was deep in thought, of the way he hooked random objects with the handle of his cane so that he didn't have to move from his position on the couch. His cane, his disability, had become as much a part of him as his own hands or lungs. It was an extension of him.

I thought of House on Ketamine. His caution and wariness when he woke up and his leg felt no pain. The way he had guarded himself, wrapped in a shroud of skepticism when it came time to try walking again. His silent triumph and shock and elation when he found he could walk with no pain or hindrance—and the confusion and loss of identity that followed after. But mostly I thought about how he ran. The instinctual hitch in his walk or the grasp of his hand took months to fade as his muscle memory adjusted to life without a cane. But his running...

He wouldn't let anyone observe him while he relearned how to walk or run. I didn't go to his apartment for weeks. But when I finally saw him run in the park or on the hospital's track, it was if the years had fallen away and that lithe, effortless grace of his youth had never faded. Each time I saw him come into the hospital sweating and exhilarated from the run, I was transported to that morning on the track of my university and _God_... it was beautiful.

That part of him had died some more when the Ketamine had failed. I wonder if he missed it. Or if he hated the reminder of what he had been able to do, the glimpse of what he used to have. He acted like the Ketamine had never happened and I knew that he would most likely never mention it again. It made my heart ache for him. It made me want to ease his pain in some small way. He had too much of it.

I don't know how long he had been standing beside the track until I noticed him. He wore his leather jacket and jeans and his backpack was slung over his shoulder as always. His cane was at his side like a faithful companion and he leaned on it hard as he watched me. His expression was blank but his gaze was constantly tracking me, evaluating my stride and posture with the intensity of a laser beam. My stride faltered. But I kept going and I passed him with a brief smile and a wave aimed in his direction.

I was surprised. It wasn't too early—my exercise schedule was as inconsistent as always and when my first appointment of the day had canceled I had decided to do a quick run around the hospital track—but I was surprised that House had come out to see me. I wondered what that said for his state of mind.

I didn't run much longer. A glance at my watch told me it was time to cool down so I ran around once more before slowing to a walk. I placed my hands on my hips and leaned my head back, feeling the pleasant stretch of muscle as I breathed evenly. House was still there, staring, when I approached him. I grabbed my jacket, towel, and water from the ground and took a long drink.

“You're here early,” I panted as we started walking back to the hospital. I wiped my face with the towel and draped it around my neck.

“New patient,” he grunted. The long silence that followed after felt awkward to me, but House as still as unreadable as stone. “You run on your heels a little. Lean forward a bit more; it'll lengthen your stride.”

“Thanks,” I said, caught off-guard by the sudden advice. He just nodded. My jogging shoes squeaked against the short, wet grass.

 

* * *

(Twelve days later)

A heat wave had taken over New Jersey. It was only late May and news reporters were hailing it as the hottest summer in decades. I had opened the balcony door earlier to enjoy the warmth, but it had gotten way too hot to waste the air conditioner any longer. I had abandoned my white coat and suit jacket long ago, leaving me with my shirtsleeves rolled up and my tie slightly loose.

A knock came at my door just after lunch.

“Come in,” I said absently, straightening up from grabbing a stapler in the bottom drawer of my desk. The door swung open slowly and House limped in. I blinked.

“Oh-ho, I see what you did there,” I said, wagging my finger at him like an indulgent grandmother. “Using normal human etiquette to throw me off. Very clever, House.”

“See? Your reaction simply proves to me that your constant lectures on using those vaunted social niceties are less than useless when it comes to you. We've moved far past any need for etiquette in our relationship, Wilson,” House said as he sat in the chair across from me. I was somewhat confused. House's seating choice was a fairly reliable barometer of his mood—the closer to me, the better, was the general rule of thumb—as was his entrance into my office, though less so. He entered through the door, which wasn't unusual (coming in through the balcony was either very good or very bad considering it required him to hop the low wall), but when he was in an ironic, contemplative mood like this he usually sat at the couch.

“You're waxing philosophical today,” I observed, inwardly cautious. “What's the occasion?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Hooker canceled our weekly appointment tonight.”

“Oh? Candy or Elektra?”

“Brandi. Candy was _so_ last month.”

“Right. My mistake.”

“More importantly,” House withdrew two packages from the pocket of his leather coat and tossed one to me, a strange glint in his eyes. “I got us something.”

“A Popsicle? Where did you get it?” I said incredulously even as I tore off the wrapping eagerly. It was way too hot to even consider looking a gift horse in the mouth.

“Cameron really should realize that trying to be nice and bring treats to her friends in the ER is a bad idea when it's this hot outside. It's practically _asking_ people to steal them from her.”

I silently thanked the heavens that I had no reason to go to the ER today. I was convinced that Cameron had a House-dar that extended to enabling best friends who participate in his schemes and I didn't want to deal with her glares of hate today. I stuck the frozen cylinder of flavored ice—orange, I noted happily—into my mouth and sucked hard.

“What, no diatribe on respecting people's possessions or privacy?” House asked, his eyes fixed on the Popsicle in my mouth. I bit off the tip, not noticing how House flinched at the motion.

“Too hot,” I said before popping it back in my mouth.

“I agree,” House muttered under his breath. There was a blessed silence as we consumed the frozen treats. All too soon, I saw that I only had maybe half an inch of Popsicle left and I frowned in disappointment. I had a habit of biting into my Popsicles rather than sucking on it and letting it melt in my mouth and as a result they never last as long as I want them to. I eyed House across the desk, wondering if he had any more contraband stuffed in his pockets. He ignored me, seemingly focused on reading a file on my desk while he sucked on his Popsicle.

His was red, I noticed. Cherry had always been his favorite candy flavor no matter how many times I had tried to convince him that it tasted like cough syrup. By the time he finished sucking on the thing his lips would probably be dyed red. _The benefit of chewing down my Popsicle is that there won't be any evidence for Cameron to catch me with_ , I thought smugly, watching the frozen treat disappear between House's lips.

Then House released the Popsicle with a slurp and tipped it to the side, opening his mouth to run his tongue along the base and catch the melting drops there. My breath caught and my eyes felt like they were popping out of my head as I stared at the abruptly erotic scene. My jaw dropped when House trailed his tongue back up to the tip and engulfed almost the entire Popsicle in one stroke. He pumped it in and out of his mouth several times. My eyes were glued to his mouth and my hips twitched in time with his movements unconsciously as my abdomen clenched and my penis hardened. The room had suddenly become almost unbearably hot.

Then House's cheeks hollowed as he sucked hard and I swallowed reflexively, almost choking on my own spit. I went into a coughing fit that lasted several seconds. When I was done my cheeks were flushed, my eyes watering, and the last of my Popsicle had melted all over my hand. My cock was still straining against the fly of my black trousers.

“God, Wilson, you're supposed to suck on the thing, not inhale it,” House said, watching me with a frown. I waved a hand at him and cleared my throat without responding. I wiped off my sticky hand with a Kleenex—not wanting to have to walk to the bathroom with an erection trying to poke a hole through my pants—and watched House surreptitiously from beneath my eyelashes. _That whole display_ had _to be deliberate,_ I thought viciously. _Eating a stupid Popsicle is_ not _supposed to look like... like_ that _!_

But House showed no signs of foul-play. He had returned his attention to the file on my desk ( _What is so freaking interesting about that file?_ ) and was eating his Popsicle normally. It was nearly gone now, I noticed with a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. He wasn't smirking or looking at me with that infuriatingly knowing look or making phallic jokes or... anything. If I was a more paranoid man, I would say that his inattention was more suspicious than anything—House never missed anything, after all. But after five more long minutes of no erotic activity and House simply commenting on my patient's file (I'm not sure if my responses made any sense), my erection was disappearing and I was beginning to feel intensely embarrassed about my reaction.

_Get a hold of yourself, Wilson, you sick bastard! The man was just eating a damn Popsicle, not sucking your cock. You're not even gay; you can't go around getting a stiffy every time your_ male _best friend eats a Tootsie Pop or something. Now focus and get back to work._

“Well, thanks for the break, House, but I've got to get back to work,” I said, throwing my trash away and straightening the papers on my desk.

“Are you sure you don't want another one, Jimmy? I love these things; they bring back good memories.” He winked roguishly, leaving no doubt to his meaning. I swallowed hard.

“No! N-no, that's alright. I don't have time. And anyway, with the doors closed and the air conditioner on it might get kind of chilly in here, so I don't want to risk getting a cold or anything. Besides, they're Cameron's and I don't want to get in trouble with her. You remember what happened the last time you pissed her off, right?” I snapped my mouth shut to stop my ridiculous rambling. If House hadn't thought there was something off before, he certainly did now.

“Uh, yeah, I do... since I was _there_ ,” he said slowly, giving me a narrow look. “Are you on speed again?”

“What? No! _I'm_ not the one that takes recreational drugs— _you_ were the one that put it in my coffee!”

“That doesn't explain why you're acting like you're on it now.”

“I'm not! It's just—never mind. Leave, House, I've got to get back to work.”

House rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man. Just don't let Cuddy catch you riding that high; she'll probably blame it on my influence.” He stood up and limped out of the room, leaving his sticky trash on my desk.

“I'm _not_ —argh! Why do I even bother?” I muttered to myself. I grabbed the file House was looking at and glanced over it. Forty-eight year old woman with a husband and three kids. Cervical cancer. _Diagnostically boring_. Confused and suddenly exhausted, I set the file down. My eyes caught the red-stained Popsicle stick on my desk and my mind flashed to the red Popsicle sliding in and out of House's mouth. In and out... I made a strangled noise and buried my face in my hands, rubbing my eyes hard with the heels of my hands as if to scrub the memory from my retinas. It didn't work.

That night was the first time that Gregory House starred in my erotic dreams.

* * *

I was avoiding House.

Granted, it wasn't very hard, but I could tell that my patients were starting to get sick of the sight of me and I had gone over my allotted clinic hours by four days. I could only visit my patients or hide out in the clinic for so long before I was banished back to my office where House could easily find me. I had been lucky so far. House had been very busy with a critical patient for the past several days and he hadn't bothered to track me down. In fact, I hadn't seen more than glimpses of him in nearly three days. _Which is a good thing,_ I reminded myself as I ensconced myself in my office after lunch.

I had been having sexual dreams that involved House for the past week, ever since that fiasco with the stolen Popsicles. I felt like I was starting to go out of my mind, like I wasn't in control of my own body anymore. I mean, yes, I understood that I've been bi-curious since before I met House, but I'd never fantasized about another guy or even felt to urge to kiss or fuck one. Except, of course, when it came to House. I had definitely felt some interest when he had been groping me against the door of his apartment.

That had been... completely different from what I had expected. I had always thought that if I would be in a relationship with another man, it would basically be the same as a relationship with a woman—except for a penis instead of a vagina. Easier, even, since I would be working with similar equipment, as it were, rather than having to decipher my partner's every whim. I had tried anal with Bonnie before and I had liked it; I thought sex with a man would be similar.

I hadn't thought of factoring in a male's possessiveness and aggressiveness rather than a female's wanton submission, the heady aroma of musk and cologne rather than flowery perfume, the heat and hardness rather than the silky softness, the rough passion and knowing familiarity of fingers surrounding a cock... I had been with women for so long and was so practiced at _giving_ pleasure and comfort that I hadn't thought of sex in another way.

I hadn't thought of being the one who was fucked senseless.

I leaned back in my chair and pressed the heels of my hands into my eye sockets hard before running them through my hair. My eyes were probably bloodshot and I was in my shirtsleeves again. It was only now just past lunch and I was already aching to go home and drown my wayward thoughts in alcohol. My problem wasn't that I was toying with the thought of having sex with a man, it was that my thoughts almost instantly jumped to House whenever I thought about it. And having fantasies involving your older, crippled, misanthropic, emotionally-fragile, cynical, pessimistic, drug addicted, male best friend of over fifteen years was a definite no-no. Taboo. A horrific train wreck waiting to happen.

_Unavoidable._

“Wilson!” Foreman burst into the door and I looked up, startled.

“What?” The man looked worried. Foreman _never_ looked worried. A thousand scenarios crowded into my brain, all involving House. My breath stopped and my heart skipped a beat or three. _Oh God..._ I had been dreading and waiting for this day for years; House had OD'd, crashed his motorcycle, pissed off the wrong patient, gotten shot, dead—

“It's House.”

“What happened?” _Of course it's House, you idiot! Why else would you come to me?_ I was already out of my chair and pushing past him. He followed, white coat flapping, as I ran down the hall towards House's office.

“He collapsed while we were having a differential.”

There was a small crowd of people clustered just inside the conference room; I barely noticed House's old and new teams as I pushed through them roughly. House was on the floor in front of the white board curled tightly around his leg, his eyes and jaw clenched shut and sweat standing out on his brow as he strained against the pain. Cuddy knelt next to him, her face like stone but her eyes revealing her frustration and fear. I didn't have time to comfort her.

“House,” I called as I stood above him with my hands on my hips. “If you'd wanted to get my attention, there are better ways. Acting like a spoiled child isn't one of them.” I heard Cameron let out an angry gasp and Cuddy looked up at me incredulously, but my eyes were focused only on House. An utterly humorless smile curled his lips into a grimace as his eyes opened and he stared at me.

“ _Fuck you, Wilson,_ ” he gasped out, his voice nearly steady. I nodded easily with a grim smile. Anger, then. I could work with that. I loosened my tie and dropped to my knees beside him. It looked like a severe spasm, more powerful than I had seen in years. It had to be bad if House had collapsed in front of his team; he never would have lost his composure if he had the choice.

“You know the drill. Sit up, House,” I said curtly, prying his fingers away from his leg. “Someone talk to me.”

“He fell maybe ten minutes ago, just dropped to the floor,” Foreman said. “He wouldn't let anyone touch him.”

“He'd been rubbing his leg constantly all day,” Thirteen volunteered.

“What's his speed?” I asked Cuddy, who had her hand clamped around his wrist to keep a watch on his heart rate.

“120. I sent someone to find you as soon as I heard.”

“Last night, too. I had to leave late and saw him in the showers,” Kutner was saying.

“Did anyone see him leave?” Cameron asked. House had been known to stay at the hospital all night on difficult cases. I gathered by the silence that no one had. “Well, has anyone been watching him during the case? Making sure he eats and goes home and sleeps?”

“That's Wilson's job,” Foreman defended. I tuned them out, having heard all I needed. I couldn't think about the guilt now. House hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, and had put far too much stress on his leg—it was now having the muscular equivalent of a Grand Mal seizure. House was still curled tightly and it was making it difficult to reach his thigh properly.

“Come on, House, work with me,” I muttered. He leaned back slightly as the muscle loosened a little.

“At this rate he's going to pass out or have an aneurysm. He needs morphine.” Cuddy told to me quietly. House made a noise that could have been _“Hell, no”_ and shook his head, glaring at us both as if daring us to try it. I understood. House didn't want to risk another addiction; being a slave to another drug. I shook my head.

“He won't take it. That's the absolute last resort.”

Suddenly House's wasted muscles spasmed again beneath my hands and a howl of pain was ripped from House's throat. He writhed, shoving Cuddy away and jamming his knee into my stomach. I grunted in pain and forced him back, pinning his shoulders on the floor.

“House! House, come on, look at me,” I called but his eyes were wide and wild like a wounded lion. He was lost to the pain and there was only one way to bring him back before resorting to chemical means.

“Dammit, boy, _look at me_!” I growled and backhanded him across the face. The slap sounded loud in the room. My hand stung and my eyes did, too, but I forced the tears back. Even at forty-nine years old, House's dead father still had a deep hold in his son's subconscious that forced him to obey me now. His eyes focused on mine, aware but still in unbearable pain. “You back, Greg? Are you with me?”

He nodded. “F'cking hurts, Jimmy,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. I nodded as I removed my belt and forced it between his teeth. I forgot that we were in a hospital, I forgot that there were other people in the room; the world had narrowed down to just the two of us and nothing would distract me.

“I know, Greg, I know, we'll work through this. Come on, work with me here, straighten out your leg. You know what we have to do if you don't want the morphine. That's it, come on,” I kept up a steady stream of mindless murmurs as I moved closer and applied full strength to the cramped muscle. My strokes were deep and firm, kneading his thigh with my whole body weight behind the heels of my hands. Greg grunted and bit into the leather hard, his hands grasping at the carpet desperately.

I worked tirelessly for long minutes, my breath coming in pants and sweat soaking through my shirt as my own fingers and arms cramped from the intense strain. I didn't let up until I felt the stubborn spasm release the muscles and Greg relaxed into the carpet. He spat out my abused belt. I gentled my fingers while he gasped and shook like a landed fish. Finally, the aftershocks faded and his abused muscles lay quiescent beneath my hands. I sat back on my heels and breathed slowly, wiping a trembling arm across my forehead.

House closed his eyes and held up a hand. I took it and helped him sit hunched over his outstretched leg. His forehead rested against mine and, as habit dictated, his hand slid up the back of my neck to bury in my hair, holding me close to him. We sat silently for a long moment to let ourselves recover. His hand tightened in my hair briefly before he removed it, tugging on my forelock once on the way.

“I think this merits renting 'Junior' and ordering from Hao Pianying,” I said with a tired grin. House returned it.

“Arnold Schwarzenegger and hot Asian delivery girls? I like the way you think, Wonder Boy.”

“Sorry to spoil the moment, but someone has to bring you both back to reality. House, you urinated all over yourself.” I jumped, startled by Cuddy's sudden voice. I looked up. Cuddy was standing near the door with her hands on her hips. To my relief, I saw that the rest of the room was empty. Now that she mentioned it, I could smell the sharp odor of urine.

“No, really?” House said sarcastically. “Silly me, and I was just going to comment on Wilson's new cologne. I wonder what could cause this? Sudden onset of unbearable, debilitating pain maybe?”

I rolled my eyes. “Come on, let's get you to the showers.”

“You move fast, Jimmy.” I ignored him. Cuddy was wheeling over a wheelchair and I saw a pile of other medical supplies on the conference table: a heating pad, stethoscope, an emesis bowl, and various supplies for injecting morphine and other medications.

“I sent them out as soon as I was sure you weren't going to start slapping him around again,” Cuddy said, giving me a hard look. I didn't respond; that was too private to House to explain. “Cameron and Thirteen came back with these just in case.”

“And they're still out there peeking through the blinds,” House grunted as I helped him into the wheelchair. His right leg was almost completely useless, the muscles too strained to support weight without the risk of spasming or giving out. Cuddy pursed her lips and strode to the door, leaning out and speaking sharply. Seconds later I heard the tell-tale clack of heels retreating from in front of the door and I rolled my eyes.

“How long do you think it will take for Cameron to stop hovering?”

“I'd give it 'til Christmas, when her 'holiday cheer' balloon bursts and floods the entire hospital.”

“She hovers over you even more during Christmas; you're a poor, broken baby bird, remember?”

“Damn. Nothing else for it; I'll drive the car and you bury the body.”

“Oh great, some friend you are. Everyone knows the burier leaves some evidence behind and always gets caught.”

“Then that would make you a crappy accomplice, wouldn't it? I'll get Foreman to do it; he has experience with this sort of thing. And his street cred would come in handy.”

“Well, now I'm really hurt.”

“Don't worry, Wilson, you'll always be my sugar daddy.”

The affectionate bantering was safe, comforting. We both took refuge in it and if House's voice was quiet with exhaustion or I brushed my fingers through his hair every once in a while, neither of us mentioned it. The halls were empty as I wheeled him to the locker rooms. Cuddy made noises about finding a janitor to clean up the mess on the floor and gave me a warning look that said “I'll be back to check on you.”

I wheeled him into the secluded corner of the locker room, relieved to see that the handicapped stall was free. I helped him to move from the wheelchair to the bench and gave him a questioning glance. He shook his head and I stepped away.

“I'll be right next door if you need anything,” I said and he nodded without giving me a second glance. I left and grabbed House's backpack and my own extra clothes I kept in my office. I was sure to linger for long enough before I returned to the showers. Steam was rising from the last stall—the heat and humidity in the air was such that his water must be nearly scalding—and I put his things on the bench before undressing and slipping into the stall next to his.

I let the hot water cascade over my shoulders and back, sluicing off the sweat and anxiety of the last twenty minutes. _God, was it only twent_ _y_ _minutes?_ It felt like an eternity since I had been hiding from House in my office and agonizing over a few steamy dreams. _Some best friend I am,_ I thought disgustedly. _I have some stupid dreams and I freak out and run for the hills while he's struggling. So I dream about sleeping with him; who cares? At least he's still here to dream about. If it had been something more serious I could've lost him._

Terror squeezed my heart for a breathless moment. _I can't lose him. I can't. Oh God, I can't. I love him._

I couldn't imagine a life without House. I had thought that before, but only now was I realizing the full extent of the damage. I could imagine sitting on his couch and drinking beer years down the road and I didn't want to lose that... even if I wanted more. Even if I wanted to be able to be physically close to him, to hold him and kiss him and make love to him—to show him how much he means to me in a way he could understand and reciprocate. My dreams were telling me that much at least. But our stupid, screwed up friendship was all that I had; the only thing that lasted. And if my stupid dreams or feelings or _curiosity_ drove him away, I wouldn't be able to handle it.

_I'm his best friend; we support each other and laugh together, we don't lust after each other. House wouldn't accept that from me—he doesn't accept that from anyone! No, I can't risk it._ _It's not worth alienating him._

“Hey! Keep it down over there, I can practically hear you worrying. Your angst is oozing into my stall.” I choked on a laugh at House's peeved shout.

“My apologies. I'll try to care while I'm in a different room from now on,” I said, hoping he couldn't hear how strangled my voice was. Even if he did, he wouldn't mention it. And if my hot tears were mixing with the water pouring over my face, well, I wouldn't mention that either.

* * *

House refused to go back to his apartment. “The patient's in critical condition  _here_ , which means that she isn't going to be  _there_ any time soon, which means that if I want to figure out what's wrong with her before she drops dead, then I also have to be  _here_ instead of  _there_ . Following me so far, Copernicus?” was House's response to my repeated suggestions, so eventually I threw up my hands and dropped it.

And so it was that Cuddy found us in House's office with me sitting in his desk chair and House sprawled out on his recliner sleeping. As soon as we had returned from the showers, clean and freshly-clothed, I had ordered up a large lunch and several bottles of water and wasted no time in forcing him to eat it all. “I somehow missed you screwing yourself up this much and I refuse to have Cuddy nag me for the rest of my life if you die of malnutrition on my watch,” was my response to his repeated complaints. He quickly gave up fighting, still exhausted, and after eating had quickly succumbed to the sleeping pills I had ground up in his food.

She raised her eyebrows at me when she saw House sleeping.

“Don't worry,” I said, gesturing for her to have a seat across from me. “I checked with his team to make sure they could handle things for a few hours while he sleeps. _And_ I made him eat and drink something beforehand.”

“There's no way he would've fallen asleep on his own while he was on this case, even if you told him to,” she scoffed. “Did you slip him something?”

“Sleeping pills,” I said off-handedly. She gave me an impressed look. When you were around House as much as we had been, your resistance towards unethical medical procedures tended to lower. Slipping House some drugs was hardly a blip on the radar. We sat in silence for a long moment and watched him sleep.

“Why did you hit him?” Cuddy asked quietly. I shook my head, already anticipating her question. “You backhanded my head diagnostician who happens to be one of the best damn doctors this hospital has, I think I deserve an explanation.”

“Lisa, I can't tell you,” I said helplessly. I knew she was only trying to help ( _fueled by the guilt from her role in the infarction_ , pointed out the part of my brain that had flourished under House's tender care), but House would never forgive me if I told her about his father's abuse.

“You shouted at him like a drill sergeant and look, he has a bruise on his face! Do you think you can just—”

“Do you think I _wanted_ to do that?” I burst out, standing up and planting my hands on House's desk to lean over her. “Did it _look_ like I wanted to treat him that way?” I clenched my fists and turn away, pacing a quick circle before I turned back to her and spoke low and clear. “You _know_ me, Lisa; it _killed_ me to have to hurt him like that, but it was the only way to distract him, to get him focused on me instead of the pain. He understands that. You know I would never hurt him unless I had to.”

I sighed and sat back down, scrubbing my hands across my face for a long moment before I looked back at her. “Look, House has a lot of secrets and as his best friend I won't tell you what I know without his consent.”

“What about as his doctor? I know you're his medical proxy just like he's yours,” Cuddy challenged, her jaw set stubbornly. “Why did House go through all of that pain without medical relief? Why didn't he take the morphine?” I let out a slow breath.

“If that spasm had lasted any longer I would've given it to him no matter what he said,” I admitted. “House doesn't want to risk developing an addiction to morphine. No matter how he acts, he hates the pills because of his addiction, his weakness for them. But he also loves them for the relief he gets from his pain. If there's someone there who can help him through the spasm, he won't take morphine. But otherwise...” I shrugged my shoulders, indicating the helplessness I felt.

We fell into silence again. House stirred slightly, a grimace crossing his features. His right hand shifted in an abortive move towards his thigh; an almost unnoticeable gesture that I immediately recognized. I stood up to turn the heat up on the heating pad I had wrapped around his leg. He settled down and I brushed my hand through his hair before returning to my seat.

“You know,” Cuddy began quietly, “I've always admired your friendship, almost as much as I don't understand it. You two are so different, but it's almost eerie how well you work together, how well you understand each other. Half of your conversations have underlying meanings that only you understand and the other half aren't verbal at all—like how you know when he's hurting without him having to say anything at all.”

“That's a learned skill. Necessity is the mother of invention; if I waited for House to ever tell me what he's thinking or feeling or planning or _anything_ , I'd be waiting 'til the end of eternity. Being House's best friend isn't as easy as it looks.” _But it's worth it_ , I silently finished.

Cuddy's pleasantly low laugh filled the small office. “ _That_ I can understand. We're the only two people keeping him in line; it's a full time job. I admire your dedication. It's—”

“Insane? Useless? Idiotic? Masochistic?” I suggested helpfully.

“—sweet. And admirable.” She said with a smile. “It's not often that we find people that we don't have to pretend with; people we can connect with so well. But it's also insane, useless, idiotic, and masochistic. I mean, let's face it: he's still House.” I chuckled.

“House and I are actually a lot more similar than it seems,” I said with a self-deprecating smile. _You are just as screwed up as I am..._ “He just chooses to show it differently than I do most of the time.”

She shook her head. “Now why is that a scary thought?” She said dryly.

“I don't fault you for it; it's a common misconception. But don't worry, I won't be sticking knives in any outlets or faking brain cancer any time soon.”

“Thank God. One irrational loose cannon is all this hospital can handle.”

Silence filled the room again for several minutes while I waited for her to get to the real reason why she was wasting time with me rather than running her hospital.

“When are you going to tell him that you love him?” She asked abruptly. I froze, blinking like a deer in the headlights. Given my recent thoughts, it was almost eerie that she would mention that. _Maybe I really am as easy to read as House says I am._ I tried to relax, turning my head slightly and watching her with a narrow gaze.

“Not that it's any of your business,” I began uncomfortably, “but I've already told him. Several times.”

She shook her head. “Not like that. It's obvious that you've finally realized the true extent of your feelings for him and—” I shook my head, interrupting her with an upraised hand.

“Wait, _finally_?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, it's obvious to everyone else in this entire hospital that you two have romantic feelings for each other. People have been placing bets on you getting together since I hired you.”

I shook my head, disbelieving. “I—I don't under—”

“Look, Wilson,” Cuddy finally took pity on me, leaning forward to place her hand over mine. “You two have been best friends for over fifteen years. During that time, you've been through two wives and countless girlfriends; House has gone through multiple near-death experiences and continues to push away any positive form of human contact. The only constant you both have are each other. Now, it's obvious you both have issues, but whether it's denial or fear or pure obliviousness, you need to get over it. You need to reach out and grab any chance of happiness you have, and if nothing else you know that you make each other happy.”

“I—I know.” I croaked softly. “But I can't risk House... pushing me away. He doesn't deal well with long-term commitments. Neither do I, for that matter.”

“Wilson, you loved your wives. I know that's true. But you were searching for something else, even if you didn't know it. Being best friends with Gregory House _is_ a long-time commitment—you've practically been married to him for the last fifteen years; no wonder your marriages couldn't compare.” She suddenly smiled, that mischievous look entering her eyes and making her seem years younger. “And don't worry; House won't push you away. He's been trying to get into your pants for years. He didn't try too hard because he was afraid of losing your friendship but I think he's also finally realized that he wants more than what's in your pants. His other relationships never last because he's too afraid of being betrayed again, of not being understood or accepted. He doesn't have to worry about that with you; you know everything about him and you haven't left. He wants you.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but found that I had nothing to say. “Did you get an A on your psych rotation, too?” I finally said stupidly.

“Only when it comes to my two best doctors. I've been waiting for you to come to your senses for years now.”

Before my shell-shocked brain could formulate a response, Cuddy's pager went off. “The patient just went septic,” she said, standing up and giving me a sympathetic look. “Think about what I said; do what your heart feels is right. And wake him up before his patient dies.” She strode out of the room, brisk and authoritative, her white coat flapping behind her.

I moved to House's side on autopilot and shook his shoulder. “House—”

“Wha' happened? D'd you _drug_ me?” he slurred as he rolled his head toward me.

I blinked at how quickly House had woken up, but shrugged it off. “You needed to sleep; your team said they could handle it.”

“Apparently they _couldn't_ if you're waking me up,” he squinted at his watch, “only two hours since I fell asleep.”

“She's septic,” I admitted. House cursed under his breath and grabbed his phone.

“You’re all idiots,” he barked when his team answered. “No. Her white cell count would be higher. Come on, people, give me something to work with, she’s dying!” He fell silent, his head lowered in concentration as he listened. “Kutner’s wrong. But he’s less wrong than the rest of you. If her white blood cells were the Romans at Troy and the infection was the Trojan Horse…” He let the analogy trail off and I could hear his team’s voices excitedly catching on. A crooked smirk tilted the corner of his mouth up. He would rather die than admit it, but I knew House was proud of his team. “Of _course_ it’s ISPD. Start the treatment and she’s out of here by next week.”

Without another word he closed his phone and leaned back with a sigh. His eyes were closed and his lips curved in post-case satisfaction; another puzzle successfully solved.

“Congratulations,” I said. “Are you ready to go home now?”

“Aw, gee wiz mom, do I have to?” House drawled sarcastically but I ignored him as I rolled the wheelchair next to his recliner and left him to get into it alone. House had reached his “pity limit” (the amount of help he would accept in a crisis before he saw any and all attempts at assistance as pity) back at the showers. Needless to say, House’s limit was very low and I had had to push past it more times than I could count, but today I made it a point to relent.

“What did Cuddy have to say?” House asked once he had situated himself in the chair. I froze in the act of packing up his bag and shot him a quick look, but he wasn’t looking at me.

“What makes you think she was here?” I said cautiously.

“She gave you the Glare of Eternal Damnation and Clinic Duty; there was no way she’d leave you alone after that.”

I shrugged. “She wanted to know why I hit you. I wouldn’t tell her.”

House grunted and watched me with an unreadable look. He didn’t believe me. _Could he know—?_

“What are you waiting for, the Second Coming? Oh wait, your people are still waiting for the First Coming. Sucks to be you—you’ll get sloppy seconds on the plagues and earthquakes.” My shoulders relaxed and I rolled my eyes. It was a weak insult at best. _He’s just tired and off his game. He doesn’t know,_ I tried to console myself because despite the fact that House had been knocked out with the drugs, I couldn’t help but suspect that he had heard everything. Or that he could deduce what I was thinking about just by looking at me. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But not this time. He couldn’t know, because I wouldn’t know what to do if he did.

* * *

House wouldn’t let me stay at his apartment that night. Despite my worry about him, I was mostly relieved at the chance to step back and process the events—and revelations—of the day and so I didn’t push the matter. I nearly regretted it the next day, however, when I saw how much difficulty House had moving around. His leg had stiffened considerably over the night but, of course, he was too stubborn to take the day off.

But it also meant that he was mostlyconfined to his office and I was content to let him be. Being away from him for the night had helped, but I still wasn’t confident enough in my poker face—I never truly was when it came to House—to be around him without tipping my hand. And this was a puzzle I _really_ didn’t want House to solve until...

_Until what?_

I had thought of Cuddy’s words, but I honestly couldn’t see it. She claimed that House had wanted me for years and that we could be perfect together, but I hadn’t seen any evidence of it. House calls me a skirt-chasing sex fiend for a reason; I can generally tell when I’m being hit on and I hadn’t seen any typical flirtatious actions from House. _But since when had House ever been typical? It’s one of the reasons we’re still friends; we don’t like boring people._

“Ow!”

I blinked and reflexively loosened my grip on the arm of my patient—the forty-eight year old woman with cervical cancer from the file House had so intently pored over, in fact—with an apologetic look. I pressed the plunger down on the syringe in her arm and removed it smoothly.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you; sometimes these things are easier if they’re unexpected. Not this time, apparently,” I said with a sheepish smile. Her consternation melted away and a small blush covered her plump cheeks.

“Oh, that’s quite alright, Dr. Wilson,” she tittered. My cell phone alerted me to a new text message with a short scream of terror that made my patient jump and press a hand to her ample breast. Knowing it was House, I pressed the button to silence it and shrugged my shoulders.

“A practical joke my tech-savvy friend played on me. I can’t figure out how to change it back,” I explained.

She tittered again. “Oh, don’t I know the feeling! Why, my children fiddle with my phone all the time and heaven knows I can’t—” she was interrupted by my pager going off and I frowned when I saw the message. _Come now._

Despite my exasperation, I felt a twinge of worry. This was the fourth page in an hour and the twelfth in the whole day, but this was the first that actually sounded half-way serious. The other ones were obviously a product of his boredom.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Blackhurst, but I’m going to have to take this,” I said apologetically. “Luckily, we can end on a good note. That was the last of your injections and you seem to be responding very well to the follow-up treatment. I have no expectations at all that you will fall out of remission, but we’ll schedule another follow-up for three weeks from now. Just set everything up with the receptionist as you leave.”

I hurried the thankful woman out and stormed from the oncology ward to House’s office. He was sitting at his desk, absent-mindedly turning his oversized tennis ball in his hands, when I barged in. I wasted no time in planting my hands on my hips.

“What _is_ it, House?” I said, forcing my voice to be somewhat controlled.

He looked up and squinted an eye at me. “It hurts,” he said simply.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I know. It’s _been_ hurting for the last eight years; I think we’ve established that. What’s so different now?”

“No need to getyour panties in a twist,” House snarked, making a face. Then he winced before his emotionless mask slid into place. He hesitated. “It’s worse than normal, after yesterday. I need… Can you…?” He said haltingly, making a strange gesture toward his thigh. I blinked.

“You… want me to massage it for you? You _never_ ask me to give you a massage.”

“Yeah, well, I’m asking now,” he snapped, tensing up defensively. Then he hissed and bent over his leg as the action seemed to aggravate it. I dropped my hands from my hips and wasted no time in making my way to his side behind the desk.

“Alright, fine, just relax,” I murmured. I pushed his chair back against the desk firmly so that it wouldn’t move and I dropped to my knees in front of his chair. House gripped the chair arm tightly with his right hand while his left was balled up in a fist on top of the glass surface of his desk. His lips were pressed tightly together. It was an unspoken rule that we remained silent when I touched his leg.

Just like every time House let me help him so directly, my entire concentration was narrowed to him, and the room faded away while I focused intensely on my best friend. I ran my hands up from his ankle to the top of his hip and back down again, pressing and moving carefully in spots to assess the damage. His leg muscles had tightened up considerably over the night and I knew that he would not have used the heating pad in his closet that I had gotten for him years ago.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

I didn’t realize I had spoken out loud until I received a grunt in return. I glanced up. House had tipped his head back over the edge of the chair, his entire countenance tightening in pain. I returned my attention to his leg and continued massaging. Long minutes passed while I settled into the familiar rhythm; my torso bent close to House’s body to facilitate the long, firm strokes of my arms and my body rocking back and forth slightly.

Intent on the loosening muscles beneath my hands, I barely registered the long fingers that slid through my hair and gripped the back of my head gently or House’s stifled groans of relief. His hips rose as I worked out a tight knot near his hip and he let out a choked gasp.

“ _Wilson.”_ The strangled word sounded loud in the room and I was just about to ask if he was alright when a squeak that sounded suspiciously like Kutner’s cut me off.

“Oh my _God—_ ”

“House, what the—”

“It’s about time; I thought I was going to lose that bet.”

“We should probably leave and let them… um.”

“ _Not_ what it looks like,” House spoke over his fellow’s jumbled voices, rolling his eyes. “Unfortunately,” he added under his breath so I could barely hear him. I paused in my ministrations and sat back on my heels curiously, not noticing House’s fingers slip from my head.

“What are you all—?” I began before House’s muscles twitched beneath my hands and drew my attention to our compromising position. They would have walked in while I was still kneeling, my head close to House’s lap, my body rocking back and forth, House gasping and breathless with his hands buried in my hair, holding me in place—

I could feel a slow, inexorable burn creep up my neck and inflame my cheeks like molten lava. It didn’t help that my cock gave a definite twitch of interest at the image and my wide, darting eyes caught the tell-tale bulge in House’s jeans. It was most likely a reaction to the easing of pain, but that didn’t stop me from jerking my hands away from his leg as if burned, raising them as if House’s team had me at gunpoint.

“Wait— _what?—_ No no, you’ve got the wrong—House and I aren’t together!” I stammered. “I mean, we’re _together_ , in this room, but only because he’s tight—uh,” I stumbled over my frantic words when _that_ came out and made my thoughts go blank for a split second. “I mean, his _leg_ is tight! And even if we _were_ , we wouldn’t do any-anything in—the walls are _glass_ for God’s sake!”

“God, Jimmy, stop talking before you hurt yourself,” House mercifully put me out of my misery, his voice sounding perfectly calm and amused beneath his usual sarcasm.

“I’m gonna go grab your extra heating pad,” I blurted and scuttled out of the room before my head exploded. I heard House chiding his team behind me as I fled.

“You happy now? You nearly gave Wilson an aneurysm. The man’s going to suffer a nervous breakdown in his office because of you! And we were just getting to the good part…”

I hid in my office for the better part of ten minutes, trying to just not think about the whole misunderstanding, but it was impossible. I was especially careful to keep my thoughts away from the veritable black hole of erotic thoughts that occupied most of the male brain, threatening to suck me in if I even thought of actually _doing_ to House what his team had thought we were doing. _Different topic, different topic… Did Thirteen say something about a bet?_

When I couldn’t wait anymore, I slunk back to House’s office with my spare heating pad in hand. His fellows were gone. I avoided his knowing gaze as I thrust the pad at him and cursed the light flush I hadn’t been able to remove from my cheeks. He took it without comment but I could practically _feel_ him thinking of dozens of ways to exploit this situation for years to come.

“My team hasn’t been acting the same since yesterday.”

I blinked, thrown off by the casual non sequitur. “Oh? In what way?”

“Th **e** y keep tip-toeing around me like I’m about to break. And they keep giving me those damn _looks_.” He scowled.

“Looks?” I repeated dumbly.

“Yes, _looks._ They pity me.” He looked affronted at the very thought that someone would acknowledge his weakness the day before.

“Even Foreman?”

“No, but he doesn’t feel anything.”

I rolled my eyes. “You should be feeling better soon, then you can go back to terrorizing them until they forget you’re human again. I’ve got to go back to work. Are we still on for tonight?”

“Aren’t we going backwards? Blowjob, then the date? I like how you work, Jimmy.” House fluttered his eyelashes with a coquettish smile. I immediately flushed again.

“Oh, please. For the record, your fellows are idiots and if cheap food and a crappy movie count as a date in your book, then we’ve been dating practically since we’ve met.” I turned and marched out the door.

“Tell me about it! How much longer ‘til you put out?” House shouted, audible in the hallway even through the glass. I shook my head and ignored the nurses that giggled in front of the elevator.

_How did I ever think that House was easy to avoid?_ I was wondering two days later. House’s strangely cheerful mood had remained, despite me refusing to pay for lunch if he didn’t stop following me around. It seemed that every time I turned around, House was there with an off-color joke or a suggestive comment or an update on his latest patient and I was about to tear my hair out in frustration. I had tried ditching him countless times—even resorting to using the stairs for inter-floor travel—but his sense of direction was impeccable. It didn’t help that the man somehow managed to move like a crippled ninja when the mood struck him.

“What are you _on_ , House? Do I even want to know?” I asked wearily while dropping into the chair in front of his desk. I abandoned my normally straight posture and slouched in the seat, stretching my legs out and folding my hands over my abdomen (completely pooch-free, I noted smugly).

“The spice of life, Jimmy-boy,” House replied cryptically. “The scent of imminent victory.”

“Is that supposed to make any kind of rational sense? Because I’m really not in the mood to try and figure it out right now.”

“Relax, Jimmy. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

I gave up. Silence fell between us for long moments. I spotted two colorful cards in the trash and bent forward to fish them out with a growing smile.

“I _knew_ it! I _knew_ Cameron would tell! You were going to hide these from me, weren’t you? That’s fifteen bucks, you ass!”

House scowled darkly at the cheerful birthday cards in my hand. He leaned forward to extract his wallet from his back pocket and tossed a few bills at me. “Thought she was more scared of me than that,” he grumbled. “Don’t worry, I’ll make her regret ever telling my new team when my birthday is.”

I just gave him a cheeky grin as I flipped through the cards. “One from Cameron—of course—and one from… Kutner?” I let out a laugh. “Aw, that’s cute, House. You have a little mini-stalker. It’s obvious he has a crush on you.”

“He’s too young and too brown for my tastes. I like ‘em pale with brown hair and brown eyes and long legs and a tight ass—”

“Well, Cameron sent you a card, too. She obviously cares about you; maybe it’s not too late. Though she’s blonde now,” I cut in slyly, knowing House would never go for the young doctor, but there was a strange feeling in my stomach. House blinked and made a face.

“She’s too happy and gushy. Besides, she’s a _girl_.”

“Girls aren’t the flavor of the month, huh?”

House didn’t reply, but the look he gave me made me blush. Again. I stood up abruptly.

“Come on, let’s go to dinner. I made you your favorite cake and ice cream for dessert when we get home.”

House squinted at me suspiciously, pausing as he reached for his leather jacket. “You promise not to sing the song or light candles?”

“How long have we known each other? Trust me, I wouldn’t dream of it.” _The verbal flagellation alone wouldn’t be worth it,_ I thought dryly.

Dinner was as comfortable and intimate as it had ever been, filled with our own unique brand of humor and conversation. And when the waitress made a pass at me while we had ordered our dishes, House had interrupted her with a request for his “life partner’s” water to be cold but without ice, just like I liked it. When the waitress flounced away with disappointed glance, House loftily informed me that she smelled like hemorrhoid cream and he was just looking out for my best interests (with a pointed glance at my lap). The familiarity of our light, flirty teasing had startled a laugh out of me and prompted me to propose a toast at the end of the meal.

“To our friendship,” I said with a slight smile, holding up my glass of wine. House brought his own glass to meet mine with a faint clink, his expression strangely lacking its usual humor.

“And all the places it may take us,” he added in a warm, low tone that made the hair on my arms stand up. I nodded slowly, wondering at the meaning that seemed to be hidden in his cryptic words. We drank.

“Happy birthday, House.”

“Thanks, Jimmy.”

I felt completely justified in laughing my ass off when the waiters and waitresses I had tipped gathered around a moment later to sing a boisterous birthday song that had the entire restaurant laughing and clapping. I clapped also with an innocent smile.

“You said that I couldn’t sing it and I didn’t,” I pointed out cheerfully. His scowl promised dark and evil things and I made sure to steer him out the door before he could say anything that would get us thrown out. He cheered up immediately when I presented him with a thick slice of German chocolate cake (without candles) and a bowl of rich vanilla ice cream upon arriving at his apartment. He dug in with a nearly porn-worthy moan at the decadent taste, which made my stomach jump and my heart stutter while my eyes automatically zeroed in on his mouth.

I forced myself to eat my slice as well even though the silence was suddenly thick with a tension that made it hard to swallow. We sat next to each other on the leather couch, our eyes glued to the monster truck rally on TV, and I was hyperaware of the short distance between our bodies. Only a few more inches and my thigh would be pressed against his, our arms would brush, and our heat would intermingle.

I gulped down the last of my ice cream and cake hurriedly, desperate for some reason to get up and leave the suddenly stifling room.

“You done?” I asked, not waiting for a response before I scooped up his plate and bowl and retreated to the familiar comfort of the kitchen. My domain. As I set the dirty dishes in the sink, the TV suddenly went silent and I could hear the distinctive _thump-step_ as House moved from the couch. A moment later, the strains of a dark, smoothly intricate sonata filled the apartment. My hands, busily wrapping up the remaining cake and stowing away the melting ice cream, slowed as I listened. It was the composition he wrote in high school that he had finally expounded upon and completed with the help of his savant patient. I was entranced. House rarely played with an audience and I never asked him to play, knowing how intensely personal it was for him.

I moved back to the sink once the antique autopsy table that served as House’s kitchen island was clean. I rolled up my sleeves and started washing dishes quietly, listening as the composition blended seamlessly into a lighter, jazzy tune that was more suited to House’s current style. Then the jazz melted into a child’s version of the “Happy Birthday” song, which made me chuckle. The music ended after that, to my silent disappointment, and I listened as he limped his way to the kitchen. I knew better than to comment on the beautiful music. I kept my back to him, feeling his gaze bore into my shoulder blades.

“Doyou love me, Jimmy?”

My fingers slipped on the plate I was washing and it slipped back into the soapy water with a hollow _thunk_ as it hit the bottom. I forgot to breathe for a second. I couldn’t tell if he was serious and I didn’t want to turn around to check. I decided to go with what was familiar.

“Oh yes, House, I just _love_ the fact that you insult me every day and steal my food and upset my patients. I can barely contain myself.”

“You’ve told me you loved me before; why can’t you say it now?”

_Because it means something different now. Or because I finally realized what it really means._ “I’m not going to stroke your ego, House.”

“It’s not my ego I want you to stroke.” A pair of arms slipped around my waist from behind and a familiar body pressed against my back. House’s indomitable presence enveloped me and it wasn’t the heat of the water that made my cheeks flush. I froze.

“H-House…”

“Admit it, Jimmy.” House nuzzled me, his stubble leaving a pleasant burn as his mouth pressed soft kisses against my throat. My breath caught when he took my earlobe in his mouth, suckling and nibbling, and I unconsciously closed my eyes and stretched my neck to make it more accessible. One of his hands drifted up to locate a nipple through my work shirt while the other stretched against my hip, simultaneously keeping me in place and rubbing in calming little circles. This was different from that night nearly two months ago. This soft gentleness, as pleasant as it was, did not seem like House at all and it occurred to me that he was making an effort not to frighten me away.

“Mmm… I—d-don’t…” My thoughts were scattered. “What-what’re you doing?”

“Getting you to acknowledge what we both know is between us. I heard what you said, Jimmy. Cuddy may be a hard-ass, but she’s a smart hard-ass when it comes to sex. She knew _you_ were a closet-case when she first met you and she knew _I_ was after your closeted ass since #2 kicked you out.”

I felt as if I had been turned to stone. My heart stuttered before it began galloping like a racehorse and it was suddenly hard to breathe. _Did he just say..?_ I had to be sure. Heedless of my wet, soapy hand, I reached up to grab House’s wrist tightly, stopping its titillating movements. I turned in his grasp with some difficulty and looked into his darkened eyes. There was no deception there, no humor or mischievousness.

“I—House, what exactly are you saying?” I asked slowly, letting my eyes convey the emotions I didn’t dare reveal in my voice; fear, hope, excitement, incredulity. He snorted softly.

“What, do I have to spell it out for you? You’re usually much quicker than this, Jimmy.” He stopped speaking and watched my face for a long moment before he suddenly ducked down and pressed his lips against mine in a short, heart-stopping, breath-stealing kiss that left me frozen with my eyes blinking in shock. “I… care for you.”

_I_ care _for you_. House’s rarely-used substitute for the word”love”. He had used it before, but I was beginning to think I was wrong to think that it had been in a brotherly way, as I had said “I love you”. _How could I have been so blind?_

_I care for you_.

_Well, no more_. With an intensity and enthusiasm that seemed to surprise both of us I snaked my arms around his neck and pulled him down into a fiery kiss that was all soft lips and needy breaths and biting teeth, leaving us gasping and flushed when we pulled apart. I rested my forehead against his and pressed chaste kisses to the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, too,” I breathed against his skin, feeling my heart flutter at the truth and relief and _rightness_ of it all. It felt like a puzzle piece I hadn’t even realized was jammed into the wrong place was carefully removed and fitted into its rightful spot. It was like years of teasing flirts and weeks of heated looks and sexual tension were leading up to this moment and I didn’t want to wait any longer.

House tightened his grasp around my waist and captured my lips again, this time stroking my bottom lip with his tongue. I opened to him immediately and tasted rich chocolate and ice cream underlain with the ever-present bitterness of Vicodin. He pressed me back into the counter, covering my body with his own, and the careful gentleness was fading now, replaced by urgency and heat and lust, but I could still feel it in the tender brushes of his hands against my body. My hands were buried in his short hair and he had untucked my button-up and snuck his hand underneath to pet my bare skin. I groaned into his mouth.

“Greg…”

Our breathing and the wet sounds our mouths made were loud in the silent apartment but I could barely hear past the pounding in my ears. House had insinuated his good leg between my thighs and I could feel his hard length pressed into my stomach through his jeans. My own hips thrust forward in response, grinding my erection against his thigh with sweet friction that made my body shudder. I tore my mouth from his and he immediately latched onto my neck again as I panted into his ear.

“ _God_ … you know this is crazy, right? How’s this gonna work?”

“It’s worked for fifteen years, Jimmy, you just didn’t know it. Now shut up.”

House tugged urgently on my shirt, drawing me away from our comfortable position against the counter and directing me toward a surface that was more “cripple-friendly”. Our hips were virtually glued together as we stumbled through the living room and down the hall to the bedroom, hands constantly moving over each other’s bodies as if desperate to discover previously unknown territory.

In the bedroom, I worked my hands up House’s shirt until he was forced to pull away from my lips in order to remove it. Meanwhile, his own fingers were busy at my shirt front, slipping the buttons out of their holes deftly. The first touch of our bare, hot chests made me groan embarrassingly loudly and I felt House grin against my mouth as his long fingers swept up my sides and over my back. I waited for him to make a move, but after several minutes of languorous kissing, his hands remained chastely above my waist. Confused, my fevered brain wondered where the fiery possessiveness from before had gone.

Tentatively, questioningly, I ran my fingertips around the edge of his jeans above his hip bones, stroking the soft skin. House groaned and his kisses intensified. Encouraged, I fumbled to release his belt and was heading for the button when his large hand covered mine and he broke away with a harsh pant.

“Are you sure, Jimmy?” He asked. His pupils were blown with desire but there was a solemnity to his countenance that made me pause. “If we go much further… I won’t be able to stop.”

Damn. This was all about that stupid night of drunkenness and control. I hadn’t guessed that he would still feel guilty about that. Or at least would acknowledge that I might not have gotten over it. But I wasn’t an angst-ridden teenager and I knew what I wanted now and I knew it was what he wanted, too.

“I don’t want you to,” I breathed, pressing soft kisses to his mouth. “I’m sure.” I brought our hips together again to show him just how sure I was and he groaned out an expletive. His mouth was suddenly attacking mine ferociously and he pushed me back onto the bed, his fingers finding my belt and ripping it from the belt loops impatiently. That possessive passion was back and I felt an answering heat roar up in response, almost startling me with its consuming desire.

I arched my back and lifted my hips beseechingly, whimpering as House dragged my slacks and boxers down and off, exposing my naked body to his sight. I felt a flash of self-consciousness and moved my hand to cover myself when he reached out and pinned my wrist to the mattress with an iron-tight grip. His eyes were greedy and dark as they tracked over every inch of me they could see, the pale blue of his iris a thin ring around his dilated pupils. I flushed when his other hand skimmed over my flesh from my chest to my hip to my ankle, his expression as enraptured as I had ever seen it. My cock twitched when his hand passed by without touching, but he didn’t pause and I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or pissed off. I couldn’t last long at this rate.

“Greg,” I murmured, reaching for his jeans with my free hand. I pawed ineffectually at the button and fly, only succeeding in brushing over the hard length encased under the denim and making House’s entire body shudder.

“ _God, Jimmy,”_ he hissed under his breath. He removed his hands and shucked his pants and boxer briefs as hastily as his leg allowed, his eyes not moving from mine. Only when he was hovering above me again did I let my eyes shift downward. I barely glanced at the deep scar, having seen it many times before, and my eyes instantly caught on House’s cock. It was big. Much bigger than I had expected.

I had seen House naked often enough even before the infarction in the showers after a hard game of basketball or tennis at the gym, and after the infarction I had changed his catheters many times and helped him into the shower when he couldn’t even use crutches. But those had hardly been sexual situations and I had glanced at his penis only in passing and in a medical capacity. I had noted its size—as most males do—but it had been limp and shrunken from pain and shame and rage and despair. Now…

I was aware that my eyes were wide and probably faintly panicked. It was thick and long, protruding strongly from a nest of dark wiry curls, and the foreskin was pulled tautly away from the bulbous head, which was red and glistening. My cheeks were burning. It twitched as I stared and the tip bobbed against my thigh, hot and slick. I swallowed hard and let my eyes dart up at House, noting that he looked both smug and amused.

“It’s… uh, big,” I stuttered, my eyes drifting down again as if attracted by a magnet. I tried to imagine that thick cock trying to fit into my ass, shoving and tearing in its mindless determination. My erection started to wane.

House suddenly moved, settling on his left side next to me and placed a warm hand on my chest reassuringly, effectively distracting me with a kiss. He took one of my hands and placed it on his own chest.

“Relax,” he said and I felt the rumble of it beneath my fingers. “It’s just me.”

“I know that,” I said, annoyance flaring up at what I saw as a patronizing tone. I was _not_ a blushing virgin. My erection was fading fast and my insecurities were taking me over again. “Not all of us have your vast experience fucking other men, House. Forgive me if it’s hard to imagine that your huge dick will fit comfortably in my virgin ass!”

I tried to pull away but he hauled me tight against him and held me there. I didn’t struggle for fear of hurting his leg, but I stiffened like a board when I felt his hard length pressed against my hip.

“ _Relax,_ I said,” he said against my ear, his voice firm. “Jesus, Jimmy, we don’t have to hit a home run in the first inning. Your virgin ass is safe for tonight.”

I glared, not appreciating the humor. He pressed a warm kiss to my mouth and the sensation was new enough that it made me melt almost instantly, much to my chagrin.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll go slow. We have all the time in the world, Jimmy. Trust me.” He kissed me again and I felt myself falling into fogged arousal again. He ran his hand down from my shoulder to my hip, the soft caresses comforting in the love they revealed. I resumed petting him in return, my hands roaming across his chest and fingering a nipple before sliding to his back. Lost in his heat and wet tongue, I followed blindly when he eased onto his back, pulling me on top of him. I sensed this was the most comfortable position for him and my hand absently drifted to his ruined thigh, massaging it gently, apologetically. He froze but I ignored him and moved my lips down his chest and closed my lips over a nipple. The sensation made him forget all about his thigh and he groaned, burying a hand in my hair as I nibbled the bud and flicked it with my tongue.

His reactions made my confidence—and my cock—grow. This part wasn’t so different a woman, after all, and I was a master Panty Peeler. I moved my lips to the other flat nipple and trailed my fingers down House’s flat stomach and combed through the sparse pubic hair before gathering my courage in both hands and gingerly closing my fingers around his hard shaft. The cock twitched and throbbed hotly against my palm and I unconsciously raised my head away from House’s chest and watched my own fingers as if from a distance, both fascinated and vaguely bewildered.

How the hell had I gotten to this point, with House naked beneath me and his cock in my hand?

The weight of it was heavy in my hand, its length unfamiliar as I pumped once experimentally. That motion was very familiar from years of practicing on myself and now that I had it in my hand I noted that House’s cock was about as thick as my own, which wasn’t as reassuring as I had hoped. The most different thing about it was the foreskin, which moved slickly up and down with my hand, alternately covering and revealing the deep red glans. I shifted my grip a little tighter and rubbed my thumb across the foreskin and head curiously. A large drop of pre-come seeped out of the slit and House suddenly sucked in a deep breath beneath me.

Startled, I looked back up at him, embarrassed at losing myself and forgetting he was there during my explorations. He was watching my face rather than my hand, no doubt fascinated and amused at the play of emotions across it. I smirked, giving his cock a firm squeeze and loosening my grip when he groaned and tried to thrust up into my fist. He cursed and his hand suddenly left its place on my hip where it had been making reassuring circles and then my hard cock was enveloped and gripped tightly in his hand and lights exploded behind my eyes and I thrust forward blindly into that glorious tightness. My hand tightened almost painfully in response and our twin groans echoed in the room.

“If you’re done poking at my dick like it’s something you’ve never seen before, can we get this show on the road?” House’s complaint was weakened by the gasping tension that was clear in his voice. I kept my grip firm and slid my hand up and down in response, spreading the pre-come across the silky skin of the shaft. House prodded and pulled at my hips until I sat up, straddling his good leg, my right knee pressed right up against his tight, round balls. The purpose of the arrangement became clear to me when House reached out and gathered both of our straining cocks in his large hand, the silky smooth sensations setting off fireworks from the base of my spine to my fingertips.

I keened and thrust my hips forward into his tight grasp, feeling the impending orgasm creeping up my spine. I opened my eyes, wanting to watch House lose all control. We were both gasping and groaning, the slick wet slide of our cocks sounding loud in the room over the pounding of blood in my ears.

“God, Greg… So good… so good with you,” I panted mindlessly, barely aware of what I was saying. “So fucking hot…” My voice trembled as House added a twist to the end of his stroke and reached down to fondle my balls and then my orgasm was suddenly upon me, ripping through my body with the force of a train. My back arched and my toes curled and I threw my head back and moaned House’s name helplessly, the sound reverberating around the small room.

My cock pulsed three, four times, shooting come onto House’s hand and belly. I slumped forward when the worst had passed, my breath shuddering through my chest and my limbs twitching with aftershocks. My eyes opened lazily and instantly caught House’s eyes. He had stopped stroking himself in favor of watching me. I leaned forward for a slow, heated kiss and swept my hand through the mess on his belly before sitting up and wrapping my slippery hand around his throbbing cock, gripping it tightly and stroking hard and fast.

“J-Jimmy,” House grunted and shut his eyes, thrusting his hips as best he could for more sweet friction. Then he tensed and his body shook and his cock was jerking in my hand, thick runnels of hot come spurting over my fingers and pooling on his chest and stomach. House’s jaw was slack and his expression was open and raw, the ecstasy breathtaking. I had never imagined seeing House like this and I felt a sudden conviction to see it again and again.

We were both panting when it was over. I slid off of House’s thigh and collapsed next to him on my back, hot and sweaty and sticky and loving the feeling. House reached over to his nightstand and swallowed a pill, leaning back with one arm behind his head and the other wrapping around my shoulders and pulling me close to him. I sighed happily and threw an arm over his chest, stroking my fingers over his breastbone and ignoring the come that smeared over my skin. It felt delightfully dirty.

“God, that was good,” I murmured sleepily, my eyelids dragging past half mast. I felt the rumble of House’s agreement underneath me and smiled. House nudged me.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep yet. As the owner of two working legs, you’re automatically delegated to the job of fetching the come-rag. I don’t want to wake up glued to you in the morning.”

“Are you sure?” I teased as I sat up and slid off of the bed. “It could be fun being stuck together. No telling what we could get up to.” I walked away, feeling House’s burning gaze on my ass, and returned with a warm wet rag that I ran gently over our bellies and spent, soft cocks. I tossed the rag away when I was finished and crawled back onto the bed next to my new lover. House ran his hand absently over my hip and ass when I settled next to him. I pulled the wrecked covers over us and pillowed my head on his shoulder.

“Wait ‘til Cuddy hears about this,” House said suddenly, just as I was falling asleep. I pinched his nipple reprovingly, having expected something like this.

“If you get to tell her about us having sex then I get to tell her that you’re a cuddler.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Just try me.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked my writing? You might like my Tumblr. rosyourboat.tumblr.com


End file.
